Стюарт Вудс - Shakeup

“That’s smart,” Stone said.

“That’s desperate.”

“When do we hear?”

“I asked for his case to be called first, so not too long.”

They had just walked into Stone’s office when her phone rang. “Got ’em,” she said and began scrolling through the shots. “No... no... no... NO!... YES!” She held the phone for Stone to see. “Only one good one, but look at it.”

Stone took the phone and gazed at the photo. Little Debby, in person, holding a black semiautomatic pistol with about six inches of silencer screwed into the barrel. “Um...” he said.

“What?”

“Well...”

“Well, what?”

Stone turned the phone around and pointed. “Great shot of the gun, but you’re missing most of Debby’s face.”

Maren snatched back the phone. “Holy shit! We only got her chin!”

“Great shot of the gun, though.”

Maren moved back up the line of photos. “Here’s a good one of her face,” she said.

“Is it in the same frame as the gun?”

“No,” Maren replied glumly. “You’re a lawyer, will these photos stand up in court?”

“I’ll give you a definitive answer: maybe. More important is how your witness’s testimony stands up in court. If he can convincingly say, ‘I took these photos, and they are all of Deborah Myers, including the one with the gun,’ then maybe better than maybe. Of course, her attorney will be waving his arms and shouting ‘Objection!’”

Maren’s phone rang. “Yes? Hello, Mark. Yes, I got the pictures. Unfortunately not one of them includes both the gun and a recognizable shot of Debby’s face. What’s your witness’s name? Eddie Craft? Good name for a burglar. Let me speak to him. I know he walked, Mark, but he must still be in the courtroom. He has to be processed. You mean he actually, physically walked out of the courtroom? Who processed him? Find him quick, Mark, and put him on the phone with me!” She hung up.

“Your side of that conversation did not sound satisfactory,” Stone said.

“The judge handed down a suspended sentence, and a woman stepped forward and gave Mark the phone, then he gave it to the prosecutor. Then the judge said, ‘You are free to go, Mr. Craft.’ And he went.”

“He would have to have been processed out, wouldn’t he? I mean, courts don’t function without paperwork.”

“The judge told him he was free to go, and he didn’t hesitate, he went. Nobody tried to stop him.”

“Then I think what you need is a good, old-fashioned APB, an all-points bulletin, for Eddie Craft. You need to have a heart-to-heart with him, and sooner rather than later.”

“I’m aware of that,” she said, pressing a button on her phone. “Mark, issue an APB for Eddie Craft. Charge? I don’t know, loitering. I need him back long enough to depose him and get his signature on his testimony. Right, and hurry!” She hung up. “Your suggestion has been taken.”

“That makes me feel so happy,” Stone said.

“You’re being a smart-ass again.”

“It’s my nature.”

“Of course,” she said. “Well, I’m going shopping.”

“The cure-all for anxiety of every variety,” Stone said. “Don’t worry, the Justice Department can reach you at Bloomingdale’s.”

“They’d better,” Maren said. She gave him a wet kiss, then left.

Eddie got into the rear seat of a black Lincoln town car, right after Shelley Moss. “JFK international departures,” she said to the driver.

“Which airline?” the driver asked.

“I’ll let you know,” she said, then turned to Eddie. “How long until the flight?”

He glanced at his watch. “Two and a half hours. We should already be there,” Eddie said, nervously. “These days, it’s at the gate three hours before the flight.”

“Sweetie, we’ve got plenty of time at this hour.” She opened her handbag. “Ticket and passport and everything in the safe.”

“We can’t walk that through departure,” Eddie said.

Shelley dug into the bag and came up with a folded sheet of paper. “Sign this,” she said.

Eddie read it. It was a customs declaration for the outgoing cash. He signed it.

“We’ll get this stamped, then we’re legal all the way,” she said. “I’ll take care of it at the airport.”

“I bet you will.” He laughed.

“A little cleavage goes a long way,” she replied. “I packed your clothes; two bags and a briefcase are in the trunk. I don’t travel quite that light. Some of my stuff is on the front passenger seat. Get ready to pay for overweight.”

At the airport they got two carts, loaded them, then looked for the Virgin Atlantic check-in desk.

“Let’s take the one with the male attendant,” she said. “Upper Class.”

The young man, entranced, did not charge them for the overweight.

The line was short, then they were in. “Now, over there,” she said, toward a small sign that read U.S. CUSTOMS. “Stand by outside the door with the luggage, where they can see you. I’ll go in.” She undid another button on her blouse and strolled in.

Eddie could see her talking to the customs agent and showing him her document, among other things. He gazed at her approvingly, then stamped the document, and she returned. “We’re all legal,” she said. “Let’s take a walk through security.”

They took a look in her handbag, and she handed over the stamped document. A pat-down with the wand, a stroll through the metal detector, and they were through.

“An hour and a half to spare,” Shelley said. She pointed at the duty-free shop. “Let’s get a fifth of something.”

An hour and a half later they were seated in Upper Class and taxiing. Eddie looked out the window and saw two NYPD cars, lights flashing, pull up to their gate, have a look around, then drive on.

“I think we’re going to make it,” Eddie said.

“You bet your sweet ass,” Shelley replied.

Eddie Craft and Shelley Moss got off the flight at Heathrow and made their way through the nothing-to-declare customs exit without being stopped. Through the swinging doors was a line of drivers holding up cards bearing their passengers’ names. Eddie steered them to one with the card reading, Schwartzkopf , and soon, they were in the rear seat of an elderly Bentley.

“Who’s this guy we’re staying with?” Shelley asked.

“Alfie Bing,” Eddie said. “Wife’s name is Edie. Alfie is a very great, old-time thief of anything that isn’t nailed down. He lives off Belgrave Square.”

“That’s a pretty tony neighborhood, isn’t it?”

“Alfie’s a pretty tony burglar. This is his Bentley. He bought the ass-end of a long lease on a big flat twenty years ago, and he’s still got a couple of decades to go.”

The Bentley pulled into a muse and drew up at a garage door. A uniformed butler stood in a doorway beside the garage. He directed them upstairs, while he and the chauffeur dealt with the luggage.

“Wow!” Shelley said as they entered a heavily decorated drawing room. “I’ve never seen so much stuff in one room!”

“Alfie has a steel-trap mind and a memory like an elephant,” Eddie said. “He’s got every piece in this room cataloged in his head. He can tell you who he stole it from and its present-day value.”

“Doesn’t he worry about being raided by the cops?”

“When he got out of prison after a two-year hitch, twenty years ago, Alfie disappeared into this flat, under a new name, Bing. He didn’t leave these rooms for more than a year. He had a colleague steal his court and prison files — all on paper in those days, so he might as well have vanished into thin air. He started wearing a toupé, too, and grew a moustache.”