Стюарт Вудс - Class Act

“I’m sure it will be fine, once you’re healed,” Stone said.

“The doctor says it will be better than fine. He worked from some old photos of me that Hillary had on her iPhone. He says people won’t recognize me with my new nose.”

“That sounds good. How long before it goes on display?”

“A couple of weeks or so,” Jack said. “I’ll have to wear a plastic cup over it for a while, so as not to frighten people. Right now, without the bandage, I’ve got two black eyes, and look like a raccoon.”

“I look forward to meeting the new you.”

“I thought, as long as I have to wear a disguise for a couple of weeks, I might as well find Detective Michael O’Brien and kill him.”

“Whoa, there, Jack,” Stone said. “That won’t solve anything; you’d be in worse trouble than before. I take it O’Brien wants your seven million dollars.”

“It’s a lot more than that now. I invested wisely.”

“I should consult you for stock tips,” Stone said.

“I can introduce you to a friend from childhood who operates out of South Florida. If you’ve got a million to invest, he’ll get you five percent a week.”

“He must be one hell of a stockbroker,” Stone said.

“He’s a loan shark, who works for the biggest bookie in the state of Florida. The bookie feeds him a steady flow of borrowers.”

“Well, that’s interesting, but not for me. Do you think it’s a secure means of investing?”

“Well, he doesn’t know my new name or where I am. His organization sends couriers with cash to various offshore banks, then they wire my five percent to my offshore account.”

“They have that account number?”

“There’s one account number set up for deposits, and a different one for withdrawals.”

“Suppose your, ah, lending friend or his boss should just decide to keep your million and not pay?”

“They know I can find them. Before I was incarcerated I had a mostly undeserved reputation for personal violence, mainly because of my appearance, which, you may remember, was more fearsome then.”

“Fearsome it was,” Stone said.

“I think it will be less so when I have healed.”

“Then it might be a good idea to lie low until you do.”

“We’re going to spend a few weeks at Hillary’s place in Northeast Harbor, Maine,” Jack said. “We won’t be going out.”

“I think you know that I knew Michael O’Brien before his retirement from the NYPD,” Stone said.

“I do.”

“He was a very good detective, and was noted in the squad for his perseverance. Once on a case he was like a dog with a bone — he never, never let go.”

“Then I may have to revert to plan A,” Jack said. “Don’t worry. I won’t shoot him down in the street. I know people who know people who would take care of it.”

“Jack, are you looking for a free ticket back to Sing Sing?”

“Don’t worry about me, Stone. Come to dinner when we get back. I’ll introduce you to my new nose.” Then Jack dozed off again.

Stone and his old NYPD partner, Dino Bacchetti, now the city’s police commissioner, were dining at P. J. Clarke’s, where the noise level covered their conversation. Since Dino was the only other person who knew about Jack Coulter’s identity, with the possible exception of Michael O’Brien and anyone else he might have told, Stone could speak freely. He told Dino about the sudden alteration of Jack’s appearance.

“It’s ironic,” Dino said, “that the only person who is hunting down John Fratelli is the one responsible for making him unrecognizable.”

“Let’s hope,” Stone said. “We haven’t seen the results of the surgery yet.”

“Responding to your request, I got a report on O’Brien’s behavior just before and after his, ah, retirement from the NYPD.”

“Oh, good. I take it the retirement wasn’t entirely voluntary.”

“It was explained to him that he had two choices: he could go to trial on charges of abetting the robbery at Jack Coulter’s apartment, or he could turn in his papers and live out his life with a decent pension.”

“You’re satisfied that O’Brien is the guy who tipped the robbers to the gathering of all that expensive jewelry?”

“By a process of elimination, yes. I’m not sure we would win at trial, but we could indict him, and that would ruin him in the department.”

“What information do you have on O’Brien’s existence since he turned in his papers?”

“He’s been doing rather well, except for the part about being a degenerate gambler.”

“Where’s he getting all the money he’s losing?”

“His mother.”

“I somehow thought he was from a fairly poor family.”

“He was, until his father died and his mother remarried, and rather well. She was the cashier at a good restaurant downtown. Her boss fell in love with her and, after she was widowed, they were married.”

“How much of a gap between husband one and husband two?”

“Not much. And husband two was very well off when he died a couple of years later. She sold the restaurant to some of their employees and gave them a mortgage, so she has a fine income — at least, what she can keep out of Mike’s hands.”

“Has anybody explored the convenient death of husband one?”

“It has been suggested that she may have helped him along toward that goal, but there is insufficient evidence to charge her.”

“I would imagine that her son could have been a great help to her in knocking him off, being a cop and all.”

“We imagined that, too, but again, we couldn’t prove it.”

“Still that possibility might be something that could be dangled over O’Brien’s head to keep him straight.”

“Keeping him straight is important, I gather,” Dino said.

“Suffice it to say that the Coulters are leaving town for a couple of weeks, until his new nose emerges. After that, he believes, he’ll be harder to spot on Lexington Avenue.”

“Good. Does that end the necessity of this conversation?”

“No. Jack has expressed an interest in removing O’Brien from the planet on a permanent basis.”

“Then... Which one are we trying to protect?”

“Coulter, who, if he had his way, would endanger his personal freedom.”

“You think Mike will forget about this while he’s gone?”

“No. If you ever worked a case with O’Brien—”

“Several.”

“Then you will recall his perseverance in pursuit of a suspect.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.”

“Also, if the reports you heard about his gambling habit are true, he is in perpetual need of money. And he may have worn out his welcome with his mother. I think he sees the downfall of Jack Coulter as the source of a windfall of funds.”

“Well, there is the seven million Jack liberated from Buono’s safe-deposit box, isn’t there?”

“Jack says it’s a lot more, now. A loan shark of his early acquaintance is sending him fifty Gs a week in interest on a million bucks Jack invested with him. And, as you know, Jack has been married to a very wealthy woman for some years now.”

“All that makes him low-hanging fruit for O’Brien?”

“Obviously.”

“And Jack is sure it was Michael?”

“Two things: First, a blackjack is a police weapon, albeit an illegal one in most circumstances. Second, Jack caught a glimpse of O’Brien immediately before he was struck.”

“So,” Dino said, “what is it you want — or rather, want me — to do?”

Stone settled into his desk chair and contemplated the stack of papers next to his keyboard.

His secretary, Joan, contemplated Stone. “Dino scanned and e-mailed that to you. I printed it out, since I know how you hate reading screens.”