It took an hour to unload all seven of the caskets. Only when the task was complete did the tall silver-haired American leave his seat. He used the pilot’s stairway, and paused at the top to stretch his weary limbs in the sun.
12
STONE HAD TO wait five minutes behind the black glass in the rear of the Tahoe, because the loading dock under the World Trade Center was busy. Tony loitered nearby, leaning on a pillar in the noisy dark, waiting until a delivery truck moved out in a blast of diesel and there was a moment before the next one could move in. He used that moment to hustle Stone across the garage to the freight elevator. He hit the button and they rode up in silence, heads down, breathing hard, smelling the strong smell of the tough rubber floor. They came out in the back of the eighty-eighth floor lobby and Tony scanned ahead. The way was clear to the door of Hobie’s suite.
The thickset man was at the reception counter. They walked straight past him into the office. It was dark, as usual. The blinds were pulled tight and it was quiet. Hobie was at the desk, sitting still and silent, gazing at Marilyn, who was on the sofa with her legs tucked underneath her.
“Well?” he asked. “Mission accomplished?”
Stone nodded. “She got inside OK.”
“Where?” Marilyn asked. “Which hospital?”
“St. Vincent’s,” Tony said. “Straight into the ER.”
Stone nodded to confirm it and he saw Marilyn smile a slight smile of relief.
“OK,” Hobie said into the silence. “’That’s the good deed for the day. Now we do business. What are these complications I need to know about?”
Tony shoved Stone around the coffee table to the sofa. He sat down heavily next to Marilyn and stared straight ahead, focusing on nothing.
“Well?” Hobie said again.
“The stock,” Marilyn said. “He doesn’t own it outright.”
Hobie stared at her. “Yes he damn well does. I checked it at the Exchange.”
She nodded. “Well, yes, he owns it. What I mean is, he doesn’t control it. He doesn’t have free access to it.”
“Why the hell not?”
“There’s a trust. Access is regulated by the trustees.”
“What trust? Why?”
“His father set it up, before he died. He didn’t trust Chester to handle it all outright. He felt he needed supervision.”
Hobie stared at her.
“Any major stock disposals need to be co-signed,” she said. “By the trustees.”
There was silence.
“Both of them,” she said.
Hobie switched his gaze to Chester Stone. It was like a searchlight beam flicking sideways. Marilyn watched his good eye. Watched him thinking. Watched him buying into the lie, like she knew he would, because it jibed with what he thought he already knew. Chester’s business was failing, because he was a bad businessman. A bad businessman would have been spotted early by a close relative like a father. And a responsible father would have protected the family heritage with a trust.
“It’s unbreakable,” she said. “God knows we’ve tried often enough.”
Hobie nodded. Just a slight movement of his head. Almost imperceptible. Marilyn smiled inside. Smiled with triumph. Her final comment had done it to him. A trust was a thing to be broken. It had to be fought. Therefore the attempts to fight it proved it existed.
“Who are the trustees?” he asked quietly.
“I’m one of them,” she said. “The other is the senior partner at his law firm.”
“Just two trustees?”
She nodded.
“And you’re one of them?”
She nodded again. “And you’ve already got my vote. I just want to get rid of the whole damn thing and get you off our backs.”
Hobie nodded back to her. “You’re a smart woman.”
“Which law firm?” Tony asked.
“Forster and Abelstein,” she said. “Right here in town.”
“Who’s the senior partner?” Tony asked.
“A guy called David Forster,” Marilyn said.
“How do we set up the meeting?” Hobie asked.
“I call him,” Marilyn said. “Or Chester does, but I think right now it would be better if I did.”
“So call him, set it up for this afternoon.”
She shook her head. “Won’t be that quick. Could be a couple of days.”
There was silence. Just the boom and shudder of the giant building breathing. Hobie tapped his hook on the desk. He closed his eyes. The damaged eyelid stayed open a fraction. The eyeball rolled up and showed white, like a crescent moon.
“Tomorrow morning,” he said quietly. “At the very latest. Tell him it’s a matter of considerable urgency to you.”
Then his eyes snapped open.
“And tell him to fax the trust deeds to me,” he whispered. “Immediately. I need to know what the hell I’m dealing with.”
Marilyn was shaking inside. She pushed down on the soft upholstery, trying to ground herself. “There won’t be a problem. It’s really just a formality.”
“So let’s go make the call,” Hobie said.
Marilyn was unsteady on her feet. She stood swaying, smoothing the dress down over her thighs. Chester touched her elbow, just for a second. A tiny gesture of support. She straightened and followed Hobie out to the reception counter.
“Dial nine for a line,” he said.
She moved behind the counter and the three men watched her. The phone was a small console. She scanned across the buttons and saw no speakerphone facility. She relaxed a fraction and picked up the handset. Pressed nine and heard a dial tone.
“Behave yourself,” Hobie said. “You’re a smart woman, remember, and right now you need to stay smart.”
She nodded. He raised the hook. It glittered in the artificial light. It looked heavy. It was beautifully made and lovingly polished, mechanically simple and terribly brutal. She saw him inviting her to imagine the things that could be done with it.
“Forster and Abelstein,” a bright voice said in her ear. “How may we help you?”
“Marilyn Stone,” she said. “For Mr. Forster.”
Her throat was suddenly dry. It made her voice low and husky. There was a snatch of electronic music and then the boomy acoustic of a large office.
“Forster,” a deep voice said.
“David, it’s Marilyn Stone.”
There was dead silence for a second. In that second, she knew Sheryl had done it right.
“Are we being overheard?” Forster asked quietly.
“No, I’m fine,” Marilyn said, brightness in her voice. Hobie rested the hook on the counter, the steel glittering chest high, eighteen inches in front of her eyes.
“You need the police for this,” Forster said.
“No, it’s just about a trustees’ meeting. What’s the soonest we can do?”
“Your friend Sheryl told me what you want,” Forster said. “But there are problems. Our staff people can’t handle this sort of stuff. We’re not equipped for it. We’re not that sort of law firm. I’ll have to find you a private detective.”
“Tomorrow morning would be good for us,” she said back. “There’s an element of urgency, I’m afraid.”
“Let me call the police for you,” Forster said.
“No, David, next week is really too late. We need to move fast, if we can.”
“But I don’t know where to look. We’ve never used private detectives.”
“Hold on a moment, David.” She covered the mouthpiece with the heel of her hand and glanced up at Hobie. “If you want it tomorrow, it’s got to be at their offices.”
Hobie shook his head. “It has to be here, on my turf.”
She took her hand away. “David, what about the day after tomorrow? It really needs to be here, I’m afraid. It’s a delicate negotiation.”
“You really don’t want the police? You absolutely sure about that?”
“Well, there are complications. You know how things can be sometimes, sort of delicate?”
“OK, but I’m going to have to find somebody suitable. It could take me some time. I’ll have to ask around for recommendations.”
“That’s great, David,” she said.
“OK,” Forster said again. “If you’re sure you’re sure, I’ll get on it right away. But I’m really not clear exactly what you’re hoping to achieve.”
“Yes, I agree,” she said. “You know we’ve always hated the way Dad set it up. Outside interference can change things, can’t it?”
“Two in the afternoon,” Forster said. “Day after tomorrow. I don’t know who it’ll be, but I’ll get you someone good. Will that be OK?”
“Day after tomorrow, two in the afternoon,” she repeated. She recited the address. “That’s great. Thanks, David.”
Her hand was shaking and the phone rattled in the cradle as she hung it up.
“You didn’t ask for the trust deeds,” Hobie said.
She shrugged nervously.
“There was no need. It’s a formality. It would have made him suspicious.”
There was silence. Then Hobie nodded.
“OK,” he said. “Day after tomorrow. Two in the afternoon.”
“We need clothes,” she said. “It’s supposed to be a business meeting. We can’t be dressed like this.”
Hobie smiled. “I like you dressed like that. Both of you. But I guess old Chester here can borrow my suit back for the meeting. You’ll stay as you are.”
She nodded, vaguely. She was too drained to push it.
“Back in the bathroom,” Hobie said. “You can come out again day after tomorrow, two o’clock. Behave yourselves and you’ll eat twice a day.”
They walked silently ahead of Tony. He closed the bathroom door on them and walked back through the dark office and rejoined Hobie in the reception area.
“Day after tomorrow is way too late,” he said. “For God’s sake, Hawaii is going to know today. Tomorrow, at the very latest, right?”
Hobie nodded. The ball was dropping through the glare of the lights. The outfielder was leaping. The fence was looming.
“Yes, it’s going to be tight, isn’t it?” he said.
“It’s going to be crazy tight. You should just get the hell out.”
“I can’t, Tony. I’ve given my word on the deal, so I need that stock. But it’ll be OK. Don’t you worry about it. Day after tomorrow at two-thirty, the stock will be mine, it’ll be registered by three, it’ll be sold on by five, we’ll be out of here by suppertime. Day after tomorrow, it’ll all be over.”
“But it’s crazy. Involving a lawyer? We can’t let a lawyer in here.”
Hobie stared at him.
“A lawyer,” he repeated slowly. “You know what the basis of justice is?”
“What?”
“Fairness,” Hobie said. “Fairness and equality. They bring a lawyer, we should bring a lawyer, too, shouldn’t we? Keep things fair?”
“Christ, Hobie, we can’t have two lawyers in here.”
“We can,” Hobie said. “In fact, I think we should.”
He walked around the reception counter and sat down where Marilyn had sat. The leather was still warm from her body. He took the Yellow Pages from a cubbyhole and opened it up. Picked up the phone and hit nine for a line. Then he used the tip of the hook in seven precise little motions to dial the number.
“Spencer Gutman,” a bright voice said in his ear. “How may we help you?”
SHERYL WAS ON her back on a bed, with an IV needle taped into a vein in her left hand. The IV was a square polyethylene bag hanging off a curled steel stand behind her. The bag contained liquid, and she could feel the pressure as it seeped down into her hand. She could feel it pushing her blood pressure higher than usual. There was hissing in her temples, and she could feel the pulses behind her ears. The liquid in the bag was clear, like thick water, but it was doing the job. Her face had stopped hurting. The pain had just faded away, leaving her feeling calm and sleepy. She had almost called out to the nurse that she could manage without the painkiller now, because the pain had gone away anyhow, but then she caught herself and realized it was the drug that was taking it away, and it would come right back if the IV stopped. She tried to giggle at her confusion, but her breathing was too slow to get much of a sound out. So she just smiled to herself and closed her eyes and swam down into the warm depths of the bed.
Then there was a sound somewhere in front of her. She opened her eyes and saw the ceiling. It was white and illuminated from above. She swiveled her gaze toward her feet. It was a big effort. There were two people standing at the end of the bed. A man, and a woman. They were looking at her. They were dressed in uniforms. Short-sleeved blue shirts, long dark pants, big comfortable shoes for walking. Their shirts were all covered in badges. Bright embroidered badges and metal signs and plates. They had belts, all loaded down with equipment. There were nightsticks and radios and handcuffs. Revolvers with big wooden handles were strapped into holsters. They were police officers. Both of them were old. Quite short. Quite broad. The heavy loaded belts made them ungainly.
They were looking at her, patiently. She tried to giggle again. They were looking at the patient, patiently. The man was balding. The illuminated ceiling was reflected in his shiny forehead. The woman had a tight perm, dyed orange, like a carrot. She was older than he was. She must have been fifty. She was a mother. Sheryl could tell that. She was gazing down with a kind expression, like a mother would.
“Can we sit down?” the woman asked.
Sheryl nodded. The thick liquid was buzzing in her temples, and it was confusing her. The woman scraped a chair across the floor and sat down on Sheryl’s right, away from the IV stand. The man sat directly behind her. The woman leaned toward the bed, and the man leaned the other way, so his head was visible in a line behind hers. They were close, and it was a struggle to focus on their faces.
“I’m Officer O’Hallinan,” the woman said.
Sheryl nodded again. The name suited her. The gingery hair, the heavy face, the heavy body, she needed an Irish name. And a lot of New York cops were Irish. Sheryl knew that. Sometimes it was like a family trade. One generation would follow the other.
“I’m Officer Sark,” the man said, from behind her.
He was pale. He had the sort of pale white skin that looks papery. He had shaved, but there was gray shadow showing. His eyes were deep set, but kindly. They were in a web of lines. He was an uncle. Sheryl was sure of that. He had nephews and nieces who liked him.
“We want you to tell us what happened,” the woman called O’Hallinan said.
Sheryl closed her eyes. She couldn’t really remember what happened. She knew she had stepped in through Marilyn’s door. She remembered the smell of rug shampoo. She remembered thinking that was a mistake. Maybe the client would wonder what needed covering up. Then she was suddenly on her back on the hallway floor with agony exploding from her nose.