Стюарт Вудс - Foul Play

“Not quite. We got a lot of shots of the car, which was, as Fred noted, a Mercedes S550 four-door sedan. With darkened windows, however, so we don’t know who was inside.”

“But you got shots of the license plates, right?”

“Sort of.”

“Were any of the cameras high-definition?”

“All of them.”

“Then why ‘sort of’?”

“We got a usable partial plate, that’s all.”

“How usable?”

“The first four characters were ‘1PCT.’ That’s all we got.”

“And how many vehicles in New York City begin with those characters?”

“New York State: a little under two thousand. Due to technical difficulties, we could not narrow the search to the city.”

“What kind of ‘technical difficulties’?

“Technical difficulties that were explained to me, but I didn’t understand.”

“Ah, that kind.”

“Right.”

“So we can’t just go to the owner’s residence and hammer on the door.”

“We cannot.”

“Well, did the attentions of the NYPD produce anything remotely useful?”

“We were able to use the feds’ facial recognition software on the two thugs,” Dino said.

“And?”

“And it didn’t recognize them.”

“Technical difficulties?”

“How did you know?”

“Just a wild guess.”

“Don’t get sarcastic.”

“That wasn’t sarcasm, it was irony.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

Their lunch arrived in time to save Dino any further embarrassment.

Dino polished off his beer, belched, and sat back in his chair. “I guess we’re going to have to resort to old-fashioned police work,” he said.

“What sort of ‘old-fashioned police work’?”

“I’m going to have two cars following you at all times.”

“Well, that should be easy, since I’m right here in this office most of the time.”

“This will be rolling surveillance,” Dino said.

“Okay, as long as it isn’t black SUVs with blue flashers mounted on the dashboard.”

“You got something against our police vehicles?”

“Yes. They look like police vehicles.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I suggest unmarked sedans.”

“I wonder if we still have any of those.”

“What do detectives ride in these days?”

“Unmarked sedans, but this is not proper work for detectives. Patrolmen can handle it.”

“Uniformed patrolmen?”

“Sure. You object to that, too?”

“Same objection as for the SUVs.”

“You’re getting ironic again.”

“Dino, these patrolmen go to mass on Sunday or synagogue on Saturday, right?”

“Sure, most of them.”

“What do they wear on those occasions?”

“Suits, I guess.”

“There you go. No shopping or expense involved, just have them wear their own suits. They can pretend they’re detectives. They’ll like that.”

“I guess you want me to issue them gold badges, too?”

“They can just pin the tin ones to their underwear.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes: no heavy black shoes with white socks. That’s always a tip-off.”

“You’ll get whatever they wear to mass or synagogue.”

“I’ll settle for that.”

“What time is your dinner date?”

“Seven-thirty.”

“My guys will be outside at seven.”

“Fine, but not right in front of the house. Tell them to employ subtlety at all times.”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“Because they’re street cops. Don’t you remember what that was like?”

“Dimly.”

“I don’t think we’ll need to bust anybody tonight. All we need is a good license plate to work with.”

“Suppose these people commit a crime?”

“Like what?”

“Like shooting you.”

“Then they can bust them, right after they call the EMTs.”

“I’ll make a note of that,” Dino said, making a note of it. “Is lunch over?”

“It is, unless you’d like a slice of blueberry pie, à la mode.”

“I would like that.”

The pie came, Dino ate it, then left without another word.

Stone pressed the intercom: “Joan?”

“Make sure that Dino doesn’t wander into the street and get run over by a car.”

“Yes, sir.”

At seven-fifteen, Stone walked out the front door of his house and found Fred in the Bentley, with a black four-door sedan parked tightly at each end.

“Fred.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m afraid Dino has gone a little nuts. He has two cars assigned to us, and I asked that they keep their distance, but you see.”

“I see, sir. I’ll have a word with them when we get to the restaurant.”

“Fine.”

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“What restaurant are we going to?”

“Caravaggio, in the seventies. We’ve been there.”

“Right, sir.” Fred backed up until the Bentley’s rear bumper made contact with the car behind, the driver of which immediately started it, reversed, and left enough distance for Fred to back up and pull out. “Do they know where we’re going, sir?” Fred asked.

“They should, if Dino has told them. If they don’t, they can just follow you.”

“Yes, sir.” They drove away.

“Pay no attention to the cops. Keeping up is their problem.”

“Yes, sir.”

Fred pulled up to the restaurant at the stroke of seven-thirty. Stone got out and left Fred to explain to the cops about not crowding him and not looking like cops. As he went inside, it occurred to Stone that he had not mentioned the cops’ haircuts to Dino.

He gave the coat-check lady his coat and looked around for Brooke Alley. He sat down at the bar to wait and ordered a Knob Creek on the rocks. After a few minutes the headwaiter approached.

“Good evening, Mr. Barrington.”

“Good evening, Gianni.”

“Are you meeting someone?”

“Yes. Her name is Brooke Alley.”

“Ah.”

“ ‘Ah’?”

“She tends to run late.”

“I noticed. How late?”

“About half an hour,” he replied.

Stone ordered another drink. At the stroke of eight, Brooke appeared, not looking flustered.

Stone helped her off with her coat and gave it to the coat-check girl. “Did one of us get the time wrong?” he asked Brooke.

“Is that a sly way of asking why I’m late?”

“Not sly enough, apparently.”

“A woman needs a little leeway,” she said, and they were led to a good table and seated with a view of the whole restaurant.

Brooke asked for a martini. Stone ordered it and nothing else.

“Aren’t you drinking?” she asked.

“I’ve already had two.”

“Oh, all right, I’m sorry I’m late.”

“Thank you.”

“I had hoped the décolletage might soothe your impatience.”

“The décolletage is not soothing, but stimulating.”

“I’m not sure how I could have improved on it.”

“Nudity, perhaps.”

“That’s good. You’re more yourself, now.”

“A couple of drinks will do that for me.”

Brooke laughed. “I thought the dress would get me off the hook.”

“If there is a hook involved, I will deal with it later.”

She laughed again.

He liked it when she laughed; her breasts moved.

“Okay, time to gaze into my eyes,” she said.

“They’re lovely eyes,” he said, adjusting his field of vision upward.

“What color are they?”

“Gray,” he ventured.

“Some would say hazel.”

“I won’t quibble.”

Her martini came, and she took a gulp. “Gotta catch up,” she explained.

“No rush.” A menu was brought; everything was high Italian.

“I’ll have the seafood risotto,” she said.