“And I’ll bet he has a Charleston alibi.”
“You got it,” Dino said. “And since we don’t have any evidence against the guy—no ID, no bullet—he can’t be touched.”
“So that’s why you were late?”
“No. I was at a meeting with Brian Doyle and the commissioner.”
“Subject?”
“Your pending bust.”
“It’s not
my
pending bust. It’s Brian’s; he owns it.”
“Yeah, I know, and that’s what worries me. I hear you got Tiffany to give you a chopper.”
“Shit! Was that mentioned at the meeting?”
“No, but I have other sources.”
“I think we need it.”
“I think you’re right,” Dino replied. “If there’s a way to fuck this up, Brian will find it. He’s a walking, framed copy of Murphy’s Law.”
“How did he ever make lieutenant?” Stone asked.
“You mean, whose cock was he …?”
“Exactly.”
“I think he did whatever was necessary.”
“It doesn’t speak well of the NYPD that they would promote the guy.”
“Look, you and I could name a dozen guys who got promoted above their level of competence,” Dino said.
“Yeah, we could. I just wish we didn’t have one of them running this bust.”
“All right, tell me who you’re worried about,” Dino said.
“Mitzi,” Stone replied, “and Hildy Parsons.”
“Oh, that’s right. Hildy is why you’re in this.”
“Exactly. But I’ve come to feel a lot for Mitzi, and she could get hurt.”
“You want me to be around when it goes down?”
“Yes, please. I’d like you at Rita Gammage’s apartment when the buy is made, and we’ll take it from there.”
“When?”
“I don’t know yet; we’re waiting for a call from Derek Sharpe to tell us he has the goods. Mitzi will see that we have some notice, though.”
“Okay, I’m available.”
“Do me a favor?”
“What is it this time?”
“I need you to call the NYPD flight department and inquire about a helicopter pad somewhere in the vicinity of Park and Seventy-second Street.”
“Okay, I can do that.”
“I think that’s all I need until the bust goes down,” Stone said. His cell phone vibrated on his belt, and he dug it out of its holster. “Hello?”
“It’s Mitzi.”
“Hello, there.”
“The buy is tomorrow morning, eleven a.m., at the apartment.”
“Gotcha. Dino and I will be there early.”
“Great.”
“Something I’d like to know about the apartment.”
“What?”
“The windows, the ones overlooking Park Avenue, do they open?”
“You mean, are they not sealed shut?”
“Exactly.”
“Hang on.”
Stone waited until she came back.
“Yes, they open,” she said.
“Thanks. See you tomorrow.” He hung up. “We’re on,” he said to Dino. “Eleven a.m. tomorrow.”
“Good.”
“You still have your old .22 target pistol?” Stone asked.
“Yeah, it’s in my safe.”
“Bring it.”
“Why?”
“Just bring it.”
Dinner arrived, and they dug in.
In spite of the bourbon and the good food, Stone was nervous again. He didn’t like being nervous; something bad usually happened when he was nervous.
56
STONE WOKE EARLY,
shaved, showered, and got to Rita’s apartment at eight. Dino met him on the sidewalk.
“I didn’t get breakfast,” Dino said.
“Neither did I,” Stone replied, ushering him into the building, “but we will.” He gave the doorman their names and waited until they were allowed upstairs. Before they went to the elevator, Stone pulled the doorman to the front door and pointed. “See that parking space?”
“Yes, sir.”
Stone put a hundred-dollar bill in his hand. “Please make sure no one parks there but a Mr. Sharpe. He drives a black Mercedes, and he’ll be here around eleven. Tell him that Miss Mitzi reserved it for him.”
“I’ll put a couple of cones out and watch for him,” the doorman said.
Mitzi answered the door in a silk dressing gown, and it looked as though she was wearing nothing under it. The sight stirred Stone, but there wasn’t time.
“You want some breakfast?” she asked.
“You betcha,” Stone said.
She led Dino down the hall toward the kitchen, but Stone went to a front window and made sure it would open, then he went to the kitchen and sat down at the table with Mitzi, Rita, and Dino. Moments later they were eating omelets and croissants, Mitzi dunking hers.
They lingered at the table, chatting, until after ten, then the women went to dress. Stone walked to the big stainless-steel refrigerator, took two eggs from the door shelf, and slipped them into his jacket pocket. Then he went into the living room and began reading the
Times
.
Dino joined him and took the Business section.
“Since when did you start reading about business?” Stone asked, surprised.
“When I got my hands on some money.” Dino had received a generous settlement when he was divorced.
“So now you’re a capitalist?”
“You bet your ass.”
“You brought the .22 pistol?” Dino had won a department championship with that pistol.
“It’s on my belt,” Dino said, not bothering to show him. “Are you armed?”
“I am,” Stone said.
“Not that you could hit anything.”
“Why do you think I asked you to bring the target pistol?” Stone said. He didn’t argue with Dino’s opinion of his marksmanship.
At ten thirty Dino used his cell phone to check on the status of the bust, then he hung up.
“Everything set?” Stone asked.
“Yep.”
“Oh, what did you find out about a helicopter pad?”
“There’s a tennis club a couple of doors from the corner of Seventy-ninth that’s being renovated. They’re taking down the nets and posts on the rooftop courts. My car is parked a block from here; my driver will run us there.”
“How many courts on the roof?”
“Four, stacked.”
Stone called the number Tiffany had given him for the helicopter pilot.
“Hello.”
“This is Stone Barrington.”
“Right, Mr. Barrington. We’re all set.”
“How long a flight from your position to the corner of Seventy-second and Park?”
“Two minutes.”
“At eleven a.m. sharp, start your engines and be ready.” He explained about the tennis club.
“I know the place; I’ve seen it from the air. The space is plenty big.”
“See you there,” Stone said.
At ten minutes to eleven the buzzer rang from the doorman, and Mitzi answered it. “Send Mr. Sharpe up,” she said, then hung up. “He’s on his way; you two had better get into the kitchen.”
Stone went to the window and opened it. The black Mercedes was parked, nine stories down. He leaned out the window, aimed carefully, and dropped an egg. “Bull’s-eye!” he said.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Dino asked.
Stone didn’t reply but aimed the second egg. “Hah!” he shouted. “Let’s get to the kitchen.”
They ran down the hallway just as the doorbell rang.
Mitzi opened the door and let Sharpe in. He was carrying two catalogue cases.
“Who else is here?” he asked.
“Just the maid,” Mitzi said. “You’re not going to get all paranoid on me again, are you?”
“Let’s get this done,” Sharpe said. He knew the way to the study.
Mitzi sat him down, and he opened both catalogue cases and began removing one-kilo bricks of cocaine.
“Do you promise me that this cocaine is just as good as the first shipment you sold me?”
“If anything, it’s better,” Sharpe said.
“Okay, put the bricks back into the cases,” she said, and Sharpe did so.
“I assume my check cleared or you wouldn’t be here,” Mitzi said.
“You’re absolutely right,” Sharpe replied. “I’ve already wire-transferred it out of the country.”
“We’re done, then?”
Sharpe stood up. “We are. Take care of yourself, Mitzi.”
“You sound like you’re going somewhere.”
“Just a little vacation. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks to supply your friends again, if they’re still in business.”
“They’ll still be in business,” she said. She showed him to the door and let him out. Then she turned, leaned against the door, and heaved a great sigh. She went to the phone and pressed the Page button. “He’s gone,” she said. “Let’s get moving.”
Stone and Dino ran down the hall and into the living room, and Stone continued to the window. “Any problems?”
“Not a one,” Mitzi said.
Stone looked out the window. “There he goes.”
Dino called for his car, while Stone called his helicopter, and then they both ran to the elevator.
When they emerged from the apartment building they found Dino’s car waiting for them at the curb. They hopped in and, after making a quick U-turn, raced up Park Avenue and around the corner of Seventy-ninth Street.
As they turned the corner, Stone saw the helicopter approaching the building and inside a cop who was holding an elevator that would take them up. They emerged from the top floor fire door onto the roof just as the aircraft landed on the tennis courts, jumped in, and buckled their seat belts.
Stone took the left seat, next to the pilot, and put on his headset. “Okay,” he said, “we’re looking for a black sedan that’s been marked with two raw eggs.”
“How’d you do that?” the pilot asked.
“From a great height,” Stone replied.
57
STONE SPOKE INTO
the headset microphone. “Let’s stay as low as possible, until we spot the car. When we do, let’s go higher, so as not to worry our man.”
“Shall we try Park Avenue first?” the pilot asked.
“Affirmative,” Stone said.
The helicopter rose vertically from the tennis courts for a couple of hundred feet, then the pilot executed a ninety-degree turn toward Park Avenue and pointed the machine downtown. They had moved only a few blocks when Stone looked down and saw the egg-decorated Mercedes.
“There,” he said, “in that traffic backup by the construction site.”
DEREK SHARPE SAT
in the traffic jam and began to sweat. He wasn’t worried about Sig Larsen leaving without him, since it took both of them to withdraw or transfer funds from their offshore account, but he was anxious to have this over and done with. He longed for a beach and a drink with an umbrella in it.
Finally, traffic edged forward, and he broke loose of the jam and headed downtown at a good speed.
STONE WATCHED
as the Mercedes moved quickly down Park Avenue. “He’s going to turn west toward the Lincoln Tunnel,” he said to the pilot.
“I’m ready,” the man replied.
At Forty-seventh Street, the Mercedes made its turn and began the slow process of driving west on a crosstown Manhattan street. The pilot hung back a block or so, keeping the black car in sight.
“HE’LL TURN LEFT
on Eleventh Avenue,” Stone said. “Then we’ll pick him up on the other side of the Hudson when he comes out of the tunnel.”
“Got it,” the pilot said as the Mercedes turned left on Eleventh Avenue. “Shall we cross the Hudson now and get ahead of him?”
“Sure,” Stone said.
The pilot turned right and headed toward the river. “Did you see that guy put the Airbus down in the river?” he asked Stone.
“I saw it a dozen times on TV, and I’m still amazed that everybody walked away from that one,” Stone replied. “The pilot said he was just doing what he’d been trained to do, but he did it awfully well, didn’t he?”
“Sure did,” the pilot said. “Here comes the other end of the tunnel.”
“Let’s gain some altitude,” Stone said. “I don’t want him to spot us when he emerges.”
The pilot flew the machine a little way south and hovered at five hundred feet looking back at the tunnel. “Traffic’s moving well at this hour of the day,” he said. “He’ll pop out of there soon.”
A black Mercedes appeared. “There,” Stone said, pointing.
“Not unless he stopped at a car wash,” the pilot said. “No egg on that car.”
“You’re right. Cars are pouring out of the tunnel; he should be out of there by now.”
They hovered for another couple of minutes.
“Something’s wrong,” the pilot said.