Стюарт Вудс - Shakeup

“First,” Maren said. “Why do you think Debby wants to kill you?”

“Well,” he said, “she killed my girlfriend. She killed Donald Clark. She killed Eddie Craft, Frank Capriani, and Patricia Clark. Why should she make an exception for me?”

“Art,” Stone said. “Why do you think Debby killed Eddie Craft?”

“Well, he’s dead, isn’t he? After all, he was going to testify against her about the gun she stole from the property room. She wouldn’t need a better reason than that.”

“You think she did all these murders herself?”

“Of course not. She isn’t stupid.”

“Then who did she get to kill them?”

“My best guess is Rocco Turko,” Art said.

Stone looked at him blankly. “Who the hell is Rocco Turko?”

“Think Rudolph Valentino, with a little more weight and a few more years. In short, Little Debby’s type.”

“She has a type?”

“Well, she’s fairly liberal about that, I guess. Let’s just say he’s the ideal: good-looking, well-hung, and willing to do anything she wants, in bed or out.”

“Including killing people?”

“Oh, that’s his favorite thing,” Art said. “At DCPD, he holds the record for apparently unprovoked shootings. If he walked in here now, he’d be happy to put two in both your heads, if that’s what Little Debby wanted. Frankly, I was expecting him . That’s why there’s a hole in my door. Incidentally, I’m very sorry about that. I’ve been drinking a lot of coffee to stay awake for when he showed up, so I’m a little wired.”

“A little,” Stone said.

Maren spoke up. “Where can we find this Rocco Turko?”

Art shrugged. “Find Debby, he’ll be there. She never travels without him, he’s her official security detail and her unofficial supply of cock.”

“Do you know where she is right now?” Maren asked.

“In New York, I imagine. That’s where Eddie Craft and his girl were when they found him.”

“Any idea where?”

“She always stays at the Lowell, Sixty-third and Madison.”

“Then that’s where we should be,” Maren said, standing up and getting out her phone. “I need a SWAT team at the Lowell Hotel, at East Sixty-third, just east of Madison. We’re looking for Deborah Myers, chief of the DCPD, and, especially, a DCPD police officer named Rocco Turko, whom you may expect to be armed and extremely dangerous. And — this is very important — I’ll be there in fifteen. Don’t start without me.”

“Can I come along?” Art asked. “I’ll bring my shotgun.”

“Sure, Art,” Stone said. “You’d better reload.”

They arrived a few steps away from the Lowell, and as they got out of Stone’s car, he spotted a large, unmarked, black van at the opposite curb, idling, making its contribution to global warming. “That’s us,” Maren said. She raised a small radio to her lips.

“Willie, what’s up inside?”

“Chief Myers just called for a bellman, so I think they’ll be right down.”

“I’m going in. Don’t send in the boys unless you hear gunfire.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Let’s go,” Maren said to Stone and Art. “And, Art, hang your raincoat over your arm to conceal the shotgun. No shooting, anybody, unless one of them starts it.”

Stone nodded and followed Maren into the lobby of the hotel. A bellman walked past them, pushing a cart of luggage, headed for the curb. Stone looked up at the elevator lights and saw one on the way down. “Descending,” he said to Maren.

“Got it,” she said. She centered herself on the elevator and stood there loosely, her hands folded in front of her.

The elevator opened and Deborah Myers stepped into the lobby, followed by a man who looked like Rudolph Valentino, but older and heavier and a sex addict, from what she had heard.

“Why, Maren,” Debby said, making an effort to smile. “What a surprise! What brings you to the big city?”

“I was hoping to run into you, Deborah,” Maren replied, “and my luck is good today.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m so glad you asked. I wondered if you and your bodyguard could take a ride with me downtown?”

“For what purpose?” Debby asked.

“There are some questions I’d like to ask you, and I hope you’ll have some answers.”

“The hotel has a conference room. Why don’t we go in there?”

“I’m afraid the nature of my questions requires a more official setting.”

Debby thought about it for a couple of seconds, then smiled again. “Sure, be glad to. I assume you have a car?”

“A very comfortable one,” Maren replied and headed with Debby for the street. “Stone,” Maren said over her shoulder, “would you give a lift to Deborah’s security man?”

“Of course,” Stone said, showing Rocco the Bentley, with Fred braced at the open door. “Art, will you ride shotgun?”

Art smiled. “Sure, Stone.”

No one in either car spoke on the ride downtown.

At the federal building, everyone placed his weapons in a tray and passed through the metal detector. It took Rocco three passes, to unload two handguns and an evil-looking knife.

Upstairs, Debby and Rocco were escorted to different interrogation rooms. Maren waved for Stone to follow her to an office, where she rang for a secretary, then dictated two documents, while Stone waited outside. When she was done, Maren motioned him inside and closed the door. She took off her jacket and began to unbutton her silk blouse.

“Really?” Stone asked, surprised. “In an FBI field office?”

“No, not really,” Maren replied. She took off the blouse, reached behind her and unhooked her bra, revealing what Stone had always felt was one of the finest views on the planet.

“You’re pressing your luck,” Stone said.

“Be a good boy, and you can watch me with Rocco.” Stone’s jaw dropped.

She put on the blouse again, but left the two top buttons undone, then she picked up a file folder from the secretary and started out of the office. Maren pointed at a door in the hallway. “You can watch from in there,” she said.

An FBI special agent came out of the interrogation room, bearing all three of Rocco Turko’s weapons, and Maren stepped in.

Stone took a seat and looked at Rocco, sitting calmly at the table in the interrogation room. He could hear him clear his throat.

Maren entered the room, and to Stone’s surprise, Rocco stood up to greet her.

“Good morning, Mr. Turko,” Maren said, offering her hand.

“Good morning,” he replied, shaking it.

“May I call you Rocco?”

“Of course.”

“And you may call me Maren,” she said. She took off her jacket and in so doing, her breasts nearly, but not quite, escaped her blouse. “I’m so glad we could get together.”

“So am I,” Rocco replied, smiling to reveal some very fine dental work.

“Listen, I know you’re going to want a lawyer, but if you can hold off that request for a few minutes, I don’t think you’ll need one.”

“Fine with me,” Rocco replied.

“First of all, are you acquainted with two people called Eddie Craft and Shelley Moss?”

“I don’t believe I am,” Rocco replied.

“Never met them?”

“No, not that I can recall.”

“Would you recognize them if you saw them?”

Rocco shook his head. “No.”

“They live in an apartment building at East Sixty-third Street and Park Avenue...”

Rocco began shaking his head.

“... in apartment 15D,” she said.

Rocco froze. “Say again?”

“Park and Sixty-third, apartment 15D.”

Rocco seemed unable to speak.

“Perhaps you know the people who live one floor below them, in 14D — a Mr. and Mrs. Moskowitz.”