Стюарт Вудс - Desperate Measures

“Sure.” He kissed her on the forehead again and left.

That evening, Stone chose a good bottle of red from his cellar, and on the way to Cilla’s apartment he stopped at a bodega and picked up a bouquet of flowers. “Take the rest of the evening off, Fred,” he said as he got out in front of Cilla’s building. “I’ll get a cab home.”

“Yes, sir,” Fred replied and drove away to his own dinner.

Stone was inspected by the doorman and admitted to the lobby, where he found an empty front desk. Oh, well, he thought, desk men have to go to the john like everyone else. There was a log of visitors on the desk, and he signed in at seven o’clock, then he took the elevator to the twelfth floor and got out. The upstairs foyer smelled deliciously of Italian cooking, and he could hear jazz playing through the door, which was ajar.

He went into the apartment, found the bar, located a vase, put water into it, and fluffed up the flowers, then he poured himself a drink from a new, sealed bottle of Knob Creek and did the same with a bottle of Belvedere vodka. The music was coming from a built-in system and traveled with him as he walked toward the kitchen.

The dining room held a handsome table for twelve, but the walls there, as in the living room, were missing pictures, which were, no doubt, on Cilla’s shopping list. “Hello!” he called out as he entered the kitchen.

There were pots simmering on the stove, but no Cilla in sight. “Cilla?” Powder room, he figured. He set the two drinks on the kitchen island, where there were barstools, took one and settled in, glancing at his watch. Five past seven. He sipped his drink, waiting patiently, then it was seven-fifteen. He got up and looked for a powder room. As he turned back, he saw a pair of legs protruding from behind the kitchen island. One ankle was bandaged and the shoe was missing.

He ran to her and found her lying on her back, a large chef’s knife protruding from her chest. He knelt beside her, avoiding a pool of blood, and felt for an artery in her neck. Nothing, and her body was cool. He stood up, walked back to his barstool, sat down, and took a big swig of his drink. Then he got out his cell phone and called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“It’s Stone,” he said.

Dino must have caught something in his voice because he immediately asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve just arrived at Cilla’s apartment for dinner and found her dead in the kitchen, with a knife in her chest.”

“Oh, Christ,” Dino said. “Are you all right?”

“I am. Will you send your people over here, please?”

“No. You call nine-one-one, like everybody else, and they’ll send the people. It’s better if I don’t get entangled in this since I know both the victim and the prime suspect.”

“‘Prime suspect’? Are you kidding?”

“I kid you not. That’s how the detectives are going to treat you when they arrive, and rightly so. You know as well as I do that the person finding the victim is always a prime suspect. I hope I don’t have to tell you not to touch anything and to be completely honest with the detectives.”

“No, you don’t have to tell me that, so stop telling me that, please.”

“Let me know how it goes, pal,” Dino said, “but not until you’re cleared.” He hung up.

“Thanks so much,” Stone said to the dead telephone. Then it occurred to him that he might not be alone in the apartment. He set down his drink, pulled his weapon from its shoulder holster, and slipped out of his shoes. Room by room, he searched the place, checking every closet and hiding place, then he went back to the kitchen and did the same there. Nothing. He switched off the burners on the stove.

His mind more at ease, he picked up a wall phone in the kitchen, called 911, and went through their drill. Then he hung up the phone, recovered his drink, went back into the living room, placed his gun and badge on the bar, and sat down to wait for the law to arrive.

First Stone heard the siren coming down Fifth Avenue, then it stopped outside. Another couple of minutes and he heard the elevator door open.

“In here,” he called out. “The door is open.”

The door opened the rest of the way, and a young man in a dark suit peered around it.

“I’m alone and unarmed,” Stone said. “Come in.”

The cop came in, gun out in front of him, followed by his partner.

“I’ve cleared the place,” Stone said. “There’s no one else here.”

“Are you a cop?” the detective asked.

“Retired. My gun and badge are on the bar, next to the flowers and the bottle of wine.”

The cop was still pointing his gun. “Stand up,” he said.

Stone stood, holding his arms away from his body.

“Hands on top of your head, fingers interlocked.”

Stone followed instructions and allowed himself to be handcuffed and thoroughly searched. The cop kept his wallet.

“A gun and a badge are over here,” the other cop said from the bar. “Detective First Grade.”

“Clear the place,” the first cop said.

“Will you uncuff me now?” Stone asked.

“You just stand right there. I’ll decide when to uncuff you.”

The other detective came back. “There’s a woman in the kitchen with a knife in her chest,” he said. “I called for the ME and a team. Otherwise, all clear.”

“Okay,” the younger man said, “you can sit down now.”

“Uncuff me first,” Stone said.

“I’m not concerned with your comfort, I just want answers.”

“Well, you’re not getting any until you’ve uncuffed me,” Stone said.

The older cop uncuffed him. “Have a seat, Mr.... ”

“Barrington,” Stone said, sitting down and picking up his drink from the side table. “And you?”

“He’s Detective Calabrese. I’m Muldoon.”

“I didn’t know there was a Muldoon left on the NYPD,” Stone said.

“We’re a rare breed,” Muldoon said.

Calabrese went to take a look at the corpse for himself, then came back. “Did you touch anything?”

“The phone on the wall. And I turned off two burners on the stove. Dinner was cooking.”

“Do you always walk around barefoot?”

“I took off my shoes when I was clearing the apartment. They’re in the kitchen.”

“I’ll get them for you,” Calabrese said.

“Why are you here?” Muldoon asked. Calabrese came back and tossed Stone’s shoes on the floor, and he put them on.

“I was invited to dinner,” Stone said. “I arrived at seven. She told me the intercom was broken, and she’d leave the door open for me. The desk man was absent, so I came upstairs. I put the flowers in some water and poured us both a drink, as she had asked me to. Then I went into the kitchen, and didn’t see her. I sat on a stool for a while, then I went to look for her and saw her legs sticking out.”

“One of them has an Ace bandage on the ankle,” Calabrese said.

“A sprain.” Stone told them how he and Cilla had met.

“You got a guess on a suspect?” Muldoon asked.

“The ex-husband, one Donald Trask. They’ve been divorced for two weeks. She gave him a lot of money to get out of the marriage, but maybe not as much as he would have liked.”

“You look pretty calm for somebody who’s found a corpse with a knife in it,” Calabrese said.

“I’ve seen more corpses than you have,” Stone replied.

“Maybe,” Calabrese said.

“Certainly,” Muldoon offered. “You got an address for this Trask?”

Stone checked his phone and gave him the address. “He moved in there a week ago Friday. He owns several guns, but his carry license may have been revoked. He failed to list a new purchase.”

“Was there any animosity between them?”