Стюарт Вудс - Class Act

“How much is in there?” Dino asked.

“Seventy-five thousand, give or take.”

“Why do you want it?”

“It’s mine. And my fingerprints and Joan’s are all over it.”

They were both frozen in their tracks when a deep voice behind them said, “What the hell are you doing?”

They turned to find a large man standing in the doorway, lit from behind by the living room lights.

Stone let out his breath. “I’m stealing back my money, Jack,” he said. “Now what the hell are you doing here?”

“I wanted to go through the place and be sure there’s nothing here to incriminate you.”

“Trust me, there isn’t.”

“I know what’s happened,” Jack said.

“Okay,” Dino said. “What’s happened, and how do you know about it?”

“Sal and Hilda are both dead, each by the other’s hand, it seems.”

“Keep going,” Dino said.

“Very unusual for two people to off each other simultaneously, but that’s what appears to have happened.”

“I’ll let you know the official position on that after I’ve heard from the ME,” Dino said.

“I’d appreciate that. I’m curious to know.”

“How did you get in here?” Stone asked.

“Ancient burglary skills. Thank you for getting the safe open. I don’t have that skill, and I was about to call a safecracker.”

“Don’t mention it,” Stone said. “And I mean that. Not to anybody.”

“Don’t worry.”

“Did you find anything incriminating here?” Stone asked.

“No, but I’d wipe the doorknob on your way out.”

“Are you staying, Jack?”

“Just for a short time. I’ll wipe down any prints I see that are larger than a woman’s.”

Stone took out his pocket square and wiped down the safe. “Save you the trouble,” he said.

“Ready, Dino?”

“There’s nothing for me here.”

“Then let’s go.” They left, and Stone wiped down the doorknob. They walked down two flights, then took the elevator to the lobby and walked back to Dino’s cruiser.

“Barrington’s house,” Dino said to his driver, then rolled up the partition between them. Shortly, they pulled up in front of Stone’s house.

“How about a nightcap?” Stone said.

“You talked me into it,” Dino replied.

They went into Stone’s study, where Stone set the briefcase on the coffee table and then poured them both a cognac.

As they sat down, Fred rapped on the doorjamb. “Excuse me, sir.”

“Come in, Fred.”

“May I speak to you alone, sir?”

“It’s okay. The commissioner is bought and paid for.”

“I just wanted to tell you what happened.”

“All right.”

“I was parked half a block away, and at about eight-fifteen, a Domino’s delivery vehicle pulled up, and the driver got out and rang the bell. A man came to the door and the pizza and some money changed hands, then the driver left.”

“And then?”

“Nothing. That was it.”

“Hear anything?”

“No, sir. Sitting in the Bentley with the motor running, it was pretty quiet.”

“Right. That will be all, Fred. Good night.”

“Good night, sir,” Fred replied, then disappeared.

When he had gone, Dino said. “It’s an expensive briefcase. What are you going to do with it?”

“Yes, it’s from Hermès, handmade, probably cost eight or ten thousand dollars.”

“It would attract too much attention, if you tossed it into a dumpster.”

“Good point. Do you want it?”

“I’d like Viv to think that I spent that much money on a birthday gift for her. It’s next week.”

Stone opened the briefcase, stacked the money inside his concealed safe, then handed the briefcase to Dino. “There you go. Wish her a happy birthday from me.”

“Not from you, from me,” Dino said, examining the case closely. “Not a mark on it.”

“I’d wipe it down with a little saddle soap, inside and out. Can you steal an Hermès box from somewhere?”

“I was counting on you for that.”

“I’ll have Joan look around. She saves things like that.”

“Good idea.”

“Anyway, now your lips are sealed.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Now, you’re officially an accomplice.”

“To what?”

“To anything I might be charged with,” Stone said.

The following morning Stone felt like running. Normally, he worked out in his home gym, but it was a beautiful day, and Bob could use the workout, too. Besides, for the first time in a while, nobody was trying to kill him. He had tried to interest Bob in the treadmill, but the two had not become friends.

He dressed in his running garb, and put on a belt holding a pouch, into which he put a facecloth, his phone, some cash, and a small wallet with his driver’s license and credit cards, then he clipped Bob’s expandable leash to his collar, and they left the house. He went unarmed for the first time in many days.

Stone’s gait and Bob’s meshed easily, and they both ran at a good lope. They headed uptown and entered Central Park, where Stone took a breather on a park bench, and Bob lay down beside him, panting.

Stone’s cell phone rang: Caller Unknown . “Hello?”

“Stay where you are,” Jack said. “I’m going to come and sit beside you, but don’t acknowledge my presence.” He hung up before Stone could reply.

Five minutes later, someone sat down at the other end of Stone’s park bench and opened a New York Times . “Good morning,” Jack said.

“Right,” Stone said, looking the other way.

“I’ve some things to tell you,” Jack said, “and it’s going to take a few minutes. When I’m done, resume your run, and I’ll keep reading my paper until you’re out of sight.”

“How did you know I’d be here?” Stone asked. “I mean, half an hour ago, I didn’t know.”

“I was sitting on my terrace, as I often do, checking out the people in the park with my binoculars, when you ran into my field of vision and sat down. Now, are you ready to listen?”

“Yes,” Stone wiped his face and neck with a facecloth from his bag.

“I cleaned up more than the Carlyle suite last night,” he said. “I cleaned up Sal Trafficante’s house, too, to the extent that it needed cleaning up. Or rather, I had it cleaned, by somebody whose knowledge of police procedure exceeds mine. I’m speaking of Michael O’Brien, who, as I expected, had found the perfect horse and bet big on it. I offered him fifty thousand dollars to kill Sal and Hilda. I took the money to his house and showed it to him, then sent him to Sal’s place, which is right around the corner from Michael’s. This was about nine-thirty. He called me and told me they were already dead. I told him I’d still give him the money. He said he’d make the crime scene cop-proof, then he returned to his own house, where I had done some things in his absence.”

“What sort of things?”

“Mainly, the note.”

“Note?”

“Michael had a small, electric typewriter on his desk. I fed in a sheet of his stationery, then typed a note which said, more or less, ‘I did both Sal Trafficante and Hilda Ross, because I was afraid of them both. I owed a bookie that belonged to Sal, and I thought he would hire Hilda to kill me. I arranged the crime scene, especially the bodies, then I got out and came home. I had expected to find money in Sal’s house, but I didn’t, so I came home empty-handed. I’m broke, now, and my mother will disinherit me as soon as she finds out, so I’m doing this for her, so she won’t have to have the pain of dealing with me anymore.’

“When Mickey came home I was ready for him. I had long latex gloves on and a bib around my neck, and a plastic face shield on. I pointed a gun at him, sat him down at his desk, took his own weapon from his shoulder holster and, without another word, shot him in the right side of his forehead. His fingerprints were already on the weapon, so I dropped it beside him, stuffed my protective gear into a shopping bag, took my briefcase containing his money and left, disposing of the various pieces of my gear along the route uptown. Questions?”