Стюарт Вудс - Desperate Measures

“Plenty, all on his part. He beat her up a couple of times, put her in the hospital once. You might want to talk to the attorney who represented her: Herbert Fisher, at this number.” He gave Muldoon his own card. “He’s my law partner.”

“If Trask has guns, why would he knife her?” Calabrese asked.

“No ballistics on a knife,” Stone said, rolling his eyes. “And you might check with the desk man to see if Trask announced himself. He may have come in while the man was away from his post, as I did, then left down the stairs to the garage.”

“You’ve got this all figured out, have you?” Calabrese asked.

“I had time to think about it while I was waiting for you to show up,” Stone replied.

“What time did you say you arrived?”

“Seven o’clock. You can check the log downstairs; I signed in.”

“Trask is a good lead,” Muldoon said. “We’ll follow it all the way.”

“If it doesn’t pan out,” Stone said, “then I haven’t got a clue. She never mentioned anybody else to me. They didn’t have any kids, and he wasn’t the sort to make fast friendships.”

“Do you know him personally?”

“He showed up at my office once, thinking I was her lawyer. I straightened him out, and he left. He called on another occasion; he was very angry. He was hanging around my block, but a friend of mine discouraged him, and I don’t think he came back. He did behave himself at the divorce hearing, I’m told. He’ll have a gun safe in his apartment.”

Then a parade of technicians began to enter the apartment and were directed to the kitchen. The detectives’ lieutenant arrived and listened to Stone’s story all over again, then told the detectives to go detain Trask. As they were leaving, the ME came out of the kitchen.

“The knife wasn’t the cause of death,” he said.

“I would have thought that would do it,” Muldoon said.

“She was shot first,” he said, “then stabbed, probably to cover up the gunshot wound.”

“Did you dig out a bullet?”

“We’ll do that in the lab. I’ll let you know. Oh, I’d put time of death at between six-thirty and seven PM.” The ME went back to the kitchen.

Muldoon shook Stone’s hand and left with Calabrese in tow. Stone recovered his gun and badge, tied his shoes, and followed them.

Downstairs, the desk man was back at his post.

“I logged in while you were away,” Stone said, turning the logbook around. “Did a man named Trask arrive to see Ms. Scott?”

“Nobody arrived,” the desk man said. “I saw your name in the log. She had said she was expecting you.”

“Tell it all to the cops when they get around to you,” Stone said, “and don’t leave anything out.”

He went outside, where it had begun to drizzle. The doorman managed to get him a cab.

“You a friend of Ms. Scott?” he asked as he opened the door for Stone.

“Yes,” Stone replied.

“We hardly got to know her,” the man said, then closed the cab door.

Stone rode home depressed. He needed another drink.

Stone went to his study, poured himself a drink, and called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“Okay, I’m clear, no thanks to you.”

“Who did they send?”

“An old pro named Muldoon and a kid called Calabrese.”

“Yeah, I know them both. How’d they do?”

“Muldoon did just fine. The kid could barely keep up and was, in general, a pain in the ass.”

“It figures. You weren’t such a hotshot, either, when you were a green detective.”

“Neither were you,” Stone said.

“I got a report on the interview with Faith Barnacle,” Dino said. “That’s new about the music. She may come up with more later.”

“Let’s hope so,” Stone said.

“What are you worried about? The killers have pled out.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll stop worrying.”

“Have you eaten anything?” Dino asked.

“No, but I’ll see what’s in the fridge.”

“Later.”

“Sure.” Stone hung up and went down to the kitchen. He found half a roast chicken and some peas in the fridge and nuked them, then opened half a bottle of a cabernet and sat down in the kitchen booth, eating slowly and watching the rain run down the windows. The Turtle Bay gardens looked bleak.

He rinsed his dishes and put them in the dishwasher, then went upstairs, undressed, and got into bed. He tried NY1, the local news channel. Cilla’s murder had already filled the Breaking News slot; there was no mention of Donald Trask.

Sean Muldoon and Dante Calabrese got out of their car and went into Donald Trask’s building.

“I can’t wait to talk to this guy,” Calabrese said.

“You shut up, and I’ll do the talking this time. You’ll learn more by listening.” Muldoon flashed his badge at the man on the front desk. “Is Donald Trask at home?”

“Yes, he is.” The man reached for his phone, but Muldoon stopped him. “What time did he come in?”

“I came on at six. I guess he walked in closer to six-thirty.”

“How much closer? It’s important.”

“Okay, between six-twenty-five and six-thirty-five. That do?”

“We’ll see; what’s his apartment number?”

“Seven D, to your left out of the elevator.”

“Don’t announce us,” Muldoon said.

“I’m supposed... ”

“Do you want to be arrested for interfering with a police investigation?”

“No, sir.”

“Then stay off the phone. We’ll surprise Mr. Trask.”

“All right, sir.”

The two detectives got onto the elevator and pressed the button. “Remember,” Muldoon said, “I’ll take the lead. We’re going to be real polite, put the fella at ease, you understand?”

“Whatever you say, Sean.”

“That’s good. I like that. Remember it.”

“I did okay with Barrington, didn’t I?”

“No, you didn’t. You were up against a man with more experience than you. You’d have gotten along better if you’d treated him as a senior colleague, instead of a perp.”

The door opened, and they rang the bell for D. Muldoon saw some light appear in the peephole, then the door opened but was secured by a chain. Muldoon showed him a badge. “NYPD,” he said. “Are you Mr. Trask?”

“Yes. What about it?”

“Please open the door, we’d like to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Mr. Trask, would you rather talk to a SWAT team?”

“Oh, all right.” The door closed, the chain rattled, and Trask stood there in his pajamas, a book in his hand — Oliver Twist. Muldoon thought that Donald Trask didn’t look like the type for Dickens. “Let’s go sit down, shall we?” he asked.

Trask stood aside and let them walk down a hall to the living room. The place wasn’t in perfect order; there were cardboard boxes stacked in the living room. “Sorry about the mess, I just moved in.”

“Not at all.” Muldoon tossed a pile of books from a chair onto the floor and sat down.

“What’s this about?” Trask asked again.

“First, I’m obliged to tell you that you’re not under arrest, and you don’t have to talk with us. You can have an attorney present, if you like.”

Trask thought about that. “I guess I don’t need a lawyer. Ask whatever you like.”

“Mr. Trask, what did you do this evening?”

“I had a burger and a beer at P. J. Clarke’s.”

“What time did you arrive at Clarke’s?”

“Around five, I guess. I went straight from my office, about a block from there.”

“Did you see anyone you knew at Clarke’s?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Do the bartenders know you?”

“I’ve been there before. But there’s no reason for them to know my name.”