Стюарт Вудс - Desperate Measures

“Do you remember ever being in the room with someone else?”

“No, but since I was naked and tied to a chair, I knew someone had been there. I feared he was coming back.”

“All right, I’ll pass that on and see if we can keep the investigators off your back for another day.”

“I’d really appreciate that.”

“Can I come and see you?”

“Maybe tomorrow. The morphine is putting me to sleep right now. Oh, the flowers are beautiful, and thanks for the phone.” She hung up.

Stone called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“Our victim woke up and called me.”

“I’ll get somebody over there right now.”

“No, she doesn’t want that until tomorrow.”

“This isn’t about what she wants.”

“She told me what happened, and I’ll tell you.”

Dino sighed. “All right, what?”

Stone related Faith’s account of her evening.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it, every word of it, and I believe her. I told her your guys would be there tomorrow. Right now, she’s asleep on morphine.”

“Well, if she’s all doped up I guess that’s the best we can do.”

“I guess so. Oh, there’s something else I have to tell you. How about dinner tonight?”

“P. J. Clarke’s at seven?”

“See you then.” He made it back to his desk before the phone rang again. “Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Cilla. How about I cook you some dinner tonight?”

“I’d love that, but I’m dining with Dino, and we have some business to discuss.”

“Saturday?”

“I’m sorry, I have a previous invitation to a dinner party, and I was asked to come alone. I expect I’ll be seated next to some highly perfumed, heavily bejeweled deaf dowager.”

“If you can’t be with me, then I wish that for you. I’m afraid I’m tied up on Sunday, but I cook to order on Mondays.”

“Perfect.”

“Come at six-thirty, and I’ll have a bottle of Knob Creek and a straw waiting.” She gave him the address and apartment number.

Stone entered his plans into his iPhone calendar.

Dino was half a drink ahead of him when he arrived at Clarke’s, and Stone started catching up. Shortly, they were seated at a table in the back room, ordering dinner.

“Tell me,” Stone said, “how is the interrogation of your three suspects going?”

“They’ve lawyered up, and they’re holding their water.”

“I can make a suggestion that might help.”

“Any help at all would be appreciated.”

“One of the suspects, Mike Adams, has been offered a deal: he testifies and gets five years. However, he stoutly maintains his innocence.”

“And how would you know that?”

“You can’t ask me, and I can’t tell you, but here’s what I think might work: ask the DA to give Mr. Adams immunity, and he’ll tell everything he knows about the other two.”

“Yeah, but what does he know?”

“Listen, he works with the other two guys every day of his life, and the three of them are very frequently alone in that hotel lobby. Even if he didn’t watch them kill those girls, he’ll know something about their whereabouts on the relevant evenings.”

“And what if he was a cheerful participant in the rapes and murders?”

“It’s the old choice,” Stone said. “One, perhaps two birds in the hand and one out the window.”

“You think the desk clerk will crack, huh? I’d sure like to know how you know that.”

“I don’t know it, but I have every reason to believe that he’ll take the deal.”

Dino heaved a deep, sorrowful Italian sigh. “All right, I’ll suggest it to the DA.”

“There’s one other piece of information you might drop while you’re suggesting it.”

“What’s that?”

“Young Mike Adams is the grandson of Mikeford Whitehorn.”

“You’re shittin’ me! That little creep is of Swifty Whitehorn’s blood?”

“I shit you not. Mike is his daughter’s son.”

“Then what’s he doing working in that fleabag hotel?”

“Mike appears to be the black sheep in the family. I think they’re grateful that he has a job, even that one, although he has a trust fund.”

“You’re just a fountain of fucking information, aren’t you. I didn’t even know you knew Swifty Whitehorn.”

“You still don’t,” Stone pointed out, “although I’ll tell you we were at the same dinner table a few years ago, and I spent the evening listening to him talk about himself.”

“And that’s where you got all this information?”

“I didn’t say that. In fact, that dinner is not the source of my information.”

“But... ”

Stone held up a hand. “Don’t ask,” he said, smiling a little.

“I’ll call the DA.”

Herb Fisher was at his desk the following morning, dictating a memo, when his phone rang. He answered. “Herb Fisher.”

“Herb, this is Ted Faber, over at Littlejohn & Brown. How are you?”

“Real good, thanks. Have we met?”

“At a Bar Association cocktail party a long time ago, but that’s not why I’m calling. I may have a client for you.”

“Who referred you to me?”

“I can’t say, but why don’t I buy you a good lunch, and we can talk about it.”

“As long as it’s a really good lunch.”

“How about The Grill, formerly the Four Seasons Grill?”

“That’ll do.”

“Twelve-thirty?”

“Good.”

Herb walked up the stairs and past the busy bar, and a young man stepped forward and offered his hand. “Herb, I’m Ted Faber.”

They shook hands and were seated.

Herb looked around. “Thank God for the Historical Commission,” he said.

“Beg pardon?”

“They kept the new building owner from ripping out the interior and starting over. It’s exactly as Philip Johnson designed it.”

“Right.”

They ordered drinks and lunch.

“So,” Herb said, “what kind of case have you got?”

“A high-profile criminal one. You know the murders of the small blondes on the East Side?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Well, our client is a suspect.”

“It doesn’t get any more high profile than that,” Herb responded. “Who represents the other two?”

“Two other attorneys from two other firms. They’ve clammed up their clients.”

“Good. How’s your client going to plead?”

“Not guilty. He’s adamant that he had nothing to do with it, says he’ll go to trial.”

“What if the other two implicate him?”

“We’d like to head off that possibility at the pass.”

“How are you planning to proceed, then, and why do you want me?”

“We’ve had some very specific instructions about that from a relative of our client, the one who’s paying the bills.”

“What instructions?”

“First, he’s instructed us to hire you. He won’t say why.”

“And, I take it, he won’t let you say who he is?”

“Later,” Ted said. “Second, he’s instructed us, or you, rather, to make a proffer to the DA: immunity on all charges in return for his testimony against the two other suspects.”

“And who are these three?”

“Our client is Mike Adams, the night clerk at a hotel on Lexington Avenue; the other two are the janitor and the elevator operator. We have it on good authority that the cops and the DA favor the janitor as the perp, but they figure he needed help, so they’re charging all three.”

“That’s odd. Hasn’t the DA made an offer?”

“Five years.”

“And Adams won’t take it?”

“He will not, and he is adamant.”

“But he’s agreed to testify?”

“We believe he will, with full immunity.”

“I don’t get it. Why do you need me?”