Стюарт Вудс - Shakeup

“Aren’t you coming to me for breakfast?”

“I didn’t think I should be there, naked, when the room service waiter arrives.”

“Well, there is that.”

“You order, I’ll shower and dress. Call me when the waiter has gone.”

“I’ll do that.” They both hung up.

They had breakfast at the table in Debby’s sitting room. “Is it too early for us to scram?” she asked.

“Do you want to stick around until the cops call on you?”

“Why should they do that?” she asked.

“Well, if the only person who could give credible testimony against you takes a dive out a high window, they might have a few questions for you.”

She looked at her watch. “I’ll give them until we’re ready to check out, then we’re out of here. Call the driver for me, will you? Here in an hour?”

“Certainly,” Rocco replied.

At his desk later in the morning, Stone called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“Let me run a scenario by you about Eddie Craft’s death,” Stone said.

“You know that’s a federal matter, don’t you? Craft had already been served with a subpoena.”

“Well, yeah, but listen to this anyway. I just want to know if you think it plays.”

“Okay, I’m listening.”

Stone took him through his theory of the murders, pausing frequently to answer Dino’s questions. Finally, he was done. “What do you think?”

“I think you’ve crafted a theory to match the circumstances, but that doesn’t mean it will convince a jury. You’ve gotta come up with the third guy, the pro.”

“And even if we do, why is the pro going to tell us all?”

“Tell you what. You find the pro, then leave him in a room with me for half an hour, and he’ll tell me all.”

“So your plan is to beat it out of him?”

“Of course not! You know we don’t do that anymore!”

“I do?”

“Trust me, you do.”

“Okay, okay, but if we’re going to find the pro, we’re going to have to get his name out of Little Debby, and if we left her alone in a room with you for half an hour, she’d probably beat you up.”

“You wound me,” Dino said, sounding wounded.

“No, but Little Debby certainly would.”

“Whatever,” Dino said.

“So, who do you know who knows what makes Little Debby tick?”

“Donald Clark,” Dino said, “but he’s out of action.”

“You’re a big help. Anybody else?”

“Maybe,” Dino said.

“Don’t be coy. If you’ve got something, spit it out.”

“Okay,” Dino said. “How’s this for a trail of breadcrumbs for you to follow... Little Debby had a rep for liking her lovers in pairs, didn’t she?”

“Yes, and sometimes treys.”

“Then ask somebody she fucked.”

“Well, let’s see: I can think of three, and two of them are dead. In fact, it has just occurred to me that one of them, Deana Carlyle, died the same way Donald Clark did.”

“Deana Carlyle? Producing another victim isn’t going to get you the name of the pro, but she was somebody’s girlfriend, wasn’t she?”

Stone snapped his fingers. “That’s it!”

“Did you snap your fingers?” Dino asked. “You hardly ever do that. You must have come up with something good.”

“Art Jacoby,” Stone said. “Deana was his girlfriend, and they’ve both been in the sack with Debby.”

“And Art hates her, so he knows her well!”

“Is he sitting down the hall from you?”

“Hang.” Dino put him on hold. “Nope,” he said finally, “he called in sick. He should be home in bed.”

“Thank you, pal.” Stone hung up and called Art. The call went straight to voicemail. “Art, it’s Stone. Call me, please.” He tried the landline: busy, busy, busy.

Maren walked into Stone’s office, looking fresh. “Good morning again,” she said.

“I found somebody who knows Little Debby well,” Stone replied. He called Art again, got the same trip to voicemail.

“Come on,” he said, standing up and getting into his jacket. “We’re going to go see him.”

“See who?”

“Art Jacoby,” Stone said. “He’s a detective on the DCPD.”

“Why does he know Debby so well?”

“Because they hate each other.”

“What better reason?” she asked. “Let’s go.”

It had begun to rain again, this time with lightning and thunder. The car was being hammered. They arrived at Art Jacoby’s place, and, in the lobby, were stopped by a man behind a desk.

Stone flashed his honorary gold shield.

“Sorry, but the guy upstairs has one of those, too, and he gave strict orders that no one is to come up.”

Maren pulled out her badge and pointed to the line on her ID that read, DIRECTOR. “This trumps them both,” she said, “or would you feel better with half a dozen angry special agents in your lobby?”

“All right,” the main said. “I’ll call upstairs.”

“You won’t get an answer,” Stone said. “We’re not sure he’s still alive.”

The man held the phone away from his ear. They could all hear the busy signal. He replaced the receiver. “Please, go right up,” he said.

They went right up. Art’s room was next to the elevator, so they didn’t have a long walk. Stone rapped on the door. “Art,” Stone called out, “open up. It’s Stone Barrington.” No response. This time he hammered on the door with his fist and shouted, “Open up!”

“Listen,” Maren whispered.

Stone leaned over to hear her better. “What?”

There was a loud explosion and a large hole appeared in the apartment’s door, exactly where Stone’s face had been, sprinkling them with bits of wood and dried paint.

Stone pushed Maren back and shouted from a couple of feet away. “Art, it’s Stone Barrington! Stop shooting at me.”

“Stone?” a voice called from inside. “Is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me. Stop shooting at us.”

“Who’s ‘us’?” Art asked suspiciously.

“Maren Gustav. Does that name ring a bell?”

“From the FBI?”

“How many Maren Gustavs do you know?”

“Come in,” Art called back. “It’s unlocked.”

Stone turned the knob and pushed the door, then stood back. “Put down the shotgun,” he called.

“It’s down. Come in.”

Stone indicated to Maren that she should enter. “You first,” she said.

“I’m coming in,” Stone said, then stepped through the door.

Art Jacoby was standing on a sofa across the room, a police-issue riot gun at port arms. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to shoot you,” he said.

“Then come down off that sofa and stop looking so threatening!” Stone shouted. “I’ve had about as much of this as I can take before I start shooting back!”

“All right, all right,” Art said, placatingly. “I won’t shoot.”

“Does that include me?” Maren asked from the doorway.

“Jesus, it’s you,” Art said, stepping down off the sofa.

“Who were you expecting?” she asked.

“Debby Myers,” he replied, as if she should have known all the time.

They sat at Art’s little kitchen table and drank terrible coffee that he had just brewed. “Good to the last drop,” he said, licking his chops.

Stone rolled his eyes. “No Italian would ever drink this,” Stone said. “Have you ever met an Italian?”

“I’ve put a few in prison,” Art said, “but we never had coffee together.”

“Can we get down to business?” Maren asked.

“What business do we have?” Art asked.

“The business that made you shoot through the door, because you thought Little Debby was out there.”

“Oh, that business. What do you want?”