Dirty Work (6 page)

14

Stone looked at Dino and Carpenter narrowly. “I hope this is some kind of joke.”

“I’m afraid not,” Carpenter said seriously. “My people are very interested in finding her, and they asked me to liaise with the NYPD. That’s why Dino and I were in the same meeting. Since we were already acquainted, I picked him to liaise with.”

“Who is this woman?” Stone asked.

“I’ll tell you all we know about her, and believe me, it won’t take long. She was born Marie-Thérèse du Bois, in Zurich, of a Swiss father and an Egyptian mother, but she doesn’t use that name anymore, because if she did, she might get caught.”

“Tell me all of it.”

“Little Marie-Thérèse grew up in Switzerland and in Egypt, and she was something of a whiz with languages, being exposed to four—the usual Swiss three, plus her mother’s Arabic—while growing up. Even as a girl, her hobby was studying languages. In addition to her native tongues, she picked up Farsi, Urdu, and some Hindi. Her father imported Middle Eastern products to Switzerland—rugs, olive oil, dates, pottery—whatever he could turn a profit on, and he was very prosperous, ended up rich, in fact. She traveled with him often around the Mediterranean basin, picking up Spanish and Greek along the way. She’d sit in hotel rooms, watching local television and conjugating verbs.”

“Good God, how many languages does she speak?”

“Nobody knows, but I’d guess at least a dozen, and with perfect accents in various dialects.”

“So, why does she go around killing people?”

“When she was twenty, my firm and the CIA were pursuing the members of a terrorist organization in Cairo who had been killing foreign tourists. We received a tip that half a dozen members of the group would be traveling in a white Renault van along a major boulevard, en route to planting some explosives. Cooperating with Egyptian intelligence, our people set up an elaborate trap for them at an intersection. There wasn’t supposed to be any traffic to speak of. Unfortunately, Marie-Thérèse and her parents were driving home from a very late party in another white van, and someone fired a rocket launcher at the wrong vehicle. Her parents were both killed instantly, but Marie-Thérèse, who was asleep in the third seat, was blown clear and survived with only scratches.

“She retreated to her Cairo home and became reclusive, but she was bitter about her parents’ death. She refused compensation from all three governments, but then she was a wealthy young woman, having inherited two large houses and her father’s considerable fortune.

“She had a boyfriend, an Irani, whose politics extended to extreme violence, and we think she was recruited by the boy and sent to a terrorist training camp in Libya, where she made contacts among others of her kind from Ireland, Japan, Germany, and God knows where else.

“She was trained in firearms, explosives, and chemical weapons, but her handlers, when they learned of her language skills, thought her meant for better things. They taught her assassination skills, document forging, and just about anything else a budding terrorist could possibly want to know, keeping her interest by telling her they would help her find the people responsible for her parents’ death so she could kill them. She also became very physically fit in the desert, and she’s known to work out almost obsessively, wherever she goes.

“When she finished her schooling in Libya, she returned to Cairo, then Zurich, selling her two houses and secreting the money in accounts around the world. Some say her holdings ran to several tens of millions of dollars. She returned to Cairo and, in effect, ceased to exist. The little we know of her since then comes from rumors and a couple of very aggressive interrogations of people who knew her.

“She seems to have assassinated two Egyptian politicians who held views unpopular with her terrorist friends. She shot one in the head while he waited in his car at a traffic signal, then calmly boarded a bus and rode away. That evening, she dropped cyanide, or something like it, in the other’s drink in a crowded restaurant, then climbed out the ladies’-room window while he was still in his death throes. We think she performed half a dozen other such jobs over the next couple of years. Her handlers realized that they had a very valuable commodity on their hands, and they strung her along by telling her they were making progress in learning the names and locations of her parents’ killers. They were lying, of course.

“Finally, she became impatient. She kidnapped the head of our Cairo station and tortured him until he gave the names of everyone involved in the operation,” Carpenter said calmly. “Then she cut his throat and watched him bleed to death. The body, naked and very damaged, was deposited on the steps of the British embassy.”

“Then she started hunting them?” Stone asked.

“Yes. The Americans were the first and easiest target. They were husband and wife. Both worked in their embassy in Cairo, and she fire-bombed their apartment while they slept.

“The British contingent, four of them, took longer. She garotted one in a railway station men’s room in Bonn. The other, she stabbed with a poisoned umbrella tip as he walked across Chelsea Bridge, in London.” Carpenter started to continue, but stopped.

“Go on,” Stone said.

“She murdered Lawrence Fortescue the night before last,” Carpenter said quietly.

“Larry Fortescue was a member of your service?”

“He was the man I told you about, the one I had a relationship with who decided to work abroad. He came here two years ago, married Elena Marks, and resigned from the firm.”

“So she got them all,” Stone said. “One by one.”

“No,” Carpenter said, “not all. She hasn’t gotten me yet.”

“You?”

“It was my first assignment abroad,” she said. “I went along merely as an observer.”

Stone gulped. “Does she know you’re in New York?”

“I don’t know,” Carpenter replied. “But I’m moving out of your house tonight, and into a hotel.”

“But why? You’re safe with me.”

“Stone,” Dino said, tapping the newspaper on the table, “if little Marie-Thérèse, or one of her friends, happens to read today’s
Post,
she’ll know that the taking of her picture was instigated by a certain lawyer with a ‘hard’ name.”

“But that’s not enough to identify me, surely.”

“And,” Dino said, “she knows where you’re dining tonight.”

Stone looked slowly around Elaine’s. He saw half a dozen women who could have been the woman in the photograph.

“Do you think this Marie . . . what’s her name . . .”

Carpenter spoke up. “She picked up a sobriquet in Paris, after murdering a member of the French cabinet. Interpol calls her ‘La Biche.’ And yes, she could be here tonight.”

Stone pushed back his chair. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

15

Dino’s driver took them to Stone’s house, where Carpenter packed her bags, then they were driven to the Lowell, a small, elegant hotel on East Sixty-third Street, off Madison Avenue.

They were met at the door by the night manager, who, without bothering to register Carpenter, took them directly to a suite on the top floor.

“Are you known here?” Stone asked when the manager had gone and the bellman had deposited her luggage in the bedroom.

“My firm is,” she said. “We’ve used the hotel often. We missed out on dinner; should we order something?”

They dined in the room on Dover sole and a good bottle of California Chardonnay, and without much conversation.

“So Dino,” Stone said when the dishes had been cleared, “I guess you’ve put out an APB for this woman.”

“Pretty tough, putting out an APB without a description,” Dino replied, looking at the dessert menu.

“Description? You’ve got a photograph of her!”

“Yeah, well,” Dino replied.

Carpenter went to her purse and brought back a sheet of paper. “Here’s what the CIA’s photo people were able to come up with,” she said, handing it to Stone.

He opened the paper to see a rather bland face, framed by long, dark hair—straight nose, big eyes.

“The photograph Herbie took was of her looking up, so only her hair, forehead, eyes, and nose were visible, no jaw, and the hair was a wig.”

“This could be nearly anybody,” Stone said.

“Exactly. La Biche’s stock-in-trade is looking like anybody. She can walk through the toughest airport security and pass herself off as an American businesswoman or a French fashion designer, an Italian countess, or a Spanish nun.”

“I thought, what with electronics, it was getting harder to use false passports. Every time I’ve used mine, it gets swiped through a reader, and my information pops up on a screen.”

“All true, but over the years there have been numerous thefts of blank passports from embassies and consulates all over the world, which solves the problem of paper authenticity, and if such thefts can be concealed for a few days or weeks, the numbers don’t come up as stolen when going through immigration. It’s very, very tough to catch somebody when your suspect is using real paper.”

“I would imagine,” Stone said.

The phone rang, and Carpenter went to answer it. “Yes? No, absolutely not. It would attract the attention of anybody who knew what to look for. Are you trying to make me a marked woman?” She paused and listened. “Well, that makes sense, I suppose, though the thought doesn’t really appeal. Oh, all right, send them over.” She hung up and returned to the table.

“What was that?” Stone asked.

“First, they wanted to put a team on me, which I thought was a bad idea. Even if they’re very good, they can be spotted.”

“But you agreed to something,” Stone pointed out.

“The CIA is sending somebody over to see me.”

The doorbell rang.

“That was quick,” Stone said.

“Too quick,” Dino said, shoving his chair away from the table.

“Go into the bedroom,” Stone said to Carpenter. He went to the door, while Dino took up a position beside it, gun drawn. He looked through the peephole and saw a young woman—light brown hair, medium height, slim. “It’s a woman,” he said. “Ready?”

Dino nodded.

Stone put the chain on the door and opened it. “Yes?” he said.

“Carpenter,” the woman replied.

“I don’t understand,” Stone said. “If you need a carpenter, see the manager.”

The woman produced an ID. “I’m here on official business.”

“It’s all right,” Carpenter said from behind Stone. “I know her. Come on in, Arlene.”

Stone unhooked the door and admitted the woman, who was carrying a small suitcase.

“Stone, Dino, this is Arlene,” Carpenter said.

Arlene nodded. “Let’s go into the bathroom,” she said to Carpenter.

Stone and Dino watched CNN while water ran and a hair dryer made noise behind the door. Forty-five minutes later, Arlene emerged from the bathroom. “May I introduce my friend, Susan Kinsolving?”

Carpenter emerged, nearly unrecognizable. Her brown hair was now a pronounced auburn, and though she usually wore little makeup, she was now pretty much a painted woman.

“Hi, there,” Carpenter said in a Midwestern American accent.

“Hate the accent,” Stone said.

“Get used to it, buddy,” Carpenter replied.

“Let’s get you outfitted with some ID,” Arlene said, opening her suitcase. “Have a seat.”

Carpenter pulled up a chair.

“Okay, here’s your American passport. It was issued three years ago and has a dozen stamps from Europe and the Caribbean. We’ve already changed the hair color. You’re a marketing executive with a computer company in San Francisco. Here are your business cards and some stationery. The company knows your name, and if anyone calls there, you have a secretary and voice mail. You were born in Shaker Heights, a suburb of Cleveland, Ohio, thirty-four years ago, educated in the public schools there and at Mount Holyoke College, in western Massachusetts. You have, in your wallet, in addition to your California driver’s license and credit cards—all valid—an alumni association membership card. You’re registered at the hotel under the Kinsolving name.” She pulled out half a dozen sheets of paper, stapled together. “Here’s your legend. Memorize it.”

Carpenter flipped through the sheets. “Very thorough.” She turned to Stone. “What do you think?” she asked, tossing her hair.

“Very nice, Susan. You want to have dinner sometime?”

Stone and Dino sat in the back of Dino’s car, rolling down Park Avenue.

“Dino, a favor?”

“What do you need?”

“Since Larry Fortescue’s death has been established as murder, would you feel comfortable calling the DA’s office and letting them know that? I’d like to get the charges dismissed, and then I can plead Herbie down to a misdemeanor and get him probation.”

“Sure, I’ll call down there first thing. You know who the ADA is?”

“Call the deputy DA and do it through him. It’ll be faster.”

“Okay.”

They pulled into Stone’s block.

“Slow down,” Dino said, checking both sides of the street. “Stop here.” The car rolled to a stop in front of Stone’s house. Dino got out and looked around. “Okay,” he said, waving Stone out of the car.

“Come on, Dino,” Stone said, “you’re creeping me out.”

But Dino stood by the car, his gun in his hand, until Stone was inside.

16

Florence Tyler left the brownstone on West Tenth Street and strolled slowly through Greenwich Village, looking into bars and restaurants and, occasionally, checking a menu posted in a window. It was nearly six o’clock, and she was dressed in a business suit and carried a Fendi purse. Then she saw what she was looking for.

The bar was called Lilith, and a peek through the window showed it to be quite stylish. The after-work crowd was building, and all the customers were women.

She walked in and took a stool at the end of the bar. The bartender, dressed and coiffed to look as much as possible like a man, came over. “Good evening,” she said in a smooth baritone. “Can I get you something?”

Another woman, butch, but still pretty, slid onto the next stool. “Let me get it,” she said.

“Thanks, I’ll stay on my own,” Florence said, not unkindly, meeting the woman’s gaze.

The woman hesitated, then vacated the stool. “As you wish, sweetheart,” she said, as she sauntered off.

“Dewar’s, rocks,” she said to the bartender, and the drink arrived. She was halfway through it when she saw what she was looking for. A woman in her late twenties had entered the bar and stopped just inside the door, looking hesitantly around her. She was dressed very much as Florence was, in a pin-striped suit, and she was carrying one of those purses that was half briefcase. She was about Florence’s height and weight and had the same streaked blond hair. She crossed the room, took a stool three down from Florence, and ordered a cosmopolitan.

“Those are too sweet for me,” Florence said, smiling.

“Well, they are sweet, but they’re addictive,” the young woman said, smiling back.

“Put that on my tab,” Florence said to the bartender.

“Thank you,” the girl said.

“Why don’t you slide over here and join me?”

The girl fumbled with her briefcase and her drink, but she made it to the stool.

“I’m Brett,” Florence said, offering her hand.

“I’m Ginger,” the girl replied.

Brett didn’t let go of her hand immediately. “Are you a New Yorker?” she asked, finally releasing it.

“I’m from Indianapolis originally, but I’ve been here for six years. I’m a paralegal in a downtown law firm. Do you live in New York, too?”

“No, I’m in from San Francisco for a few days. I’m an art dealer, and I’m in town to bid on some things for a client. There’s an auction at Sotheby’s the day after tomorrow.”

“Oh, I love art,” Ginger said, sipping her drink. “What sort of things are you bidding on?”

“Late-nineteenth-century representational paintings mostly; one piece of sculpture, too. They’re not the most expensive things in the world; you can find quite nice pictures in the thirty- to fifty-thousand-dollar range.”

“Well, that’s certainly out of
my
range,” Ginger replied.

“Have you ever been to an art auction?” Brett asked.

“No, but I’d love to go sometime.”

“If you can take the time off from work, why don’t you join me at Sotheby’s the day after tomorrow?”

“Gosh, I’d love to do that, but I only get an hour for lunch, and the workload is fierce. My boss specializes in divorce work, and the clients are very demanding.”

“Maybe another time?”

“That would be great.”

“Do you live in the neighborhood?”

“No, I’m on the Upper East Side—Eighty-first and Lexington Avenue. Where are you staying?”

“At the Carlyle—Seventy-sixth and Madison. What’s your favorite restaurant, Ginger?”

“Oh, I guess Orsay, at Seventy-fifth and Lex, just down from my building.”

“Will you have dinner with me there tonight?” Brett pulled out a small cell phone. “I’ll bet we can get a table if we go early.”

“Well, sure, I’d like that.”

Brett called the restaurant and secured a table. “Finish your drink, and we’re off,” she said.

At Orsay, they had another drink, then ate a three-course dinner and shared an expensive bottle of French wine. They kept up a steady stream of conversation, mostly about Ginger’s family and background and the sort of work she was doing.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Ginger said, but we’re representing a woman who is demanding two million dollars a year in alimony, and half a million in child support, plus five million for an apartment on Fifth Avenue.
And
she wants a limousine and security guards.”

“No doubt to protect her from her husband,” Brett said, laughing. She waved at a waiter for the check.

“Why don’t we share this?” Ginger asked, reaching for her briefcase.

“Oh, no, this one is on me—or my gallery,” Brett said. “You’re . . . Let’s see, you’re representing a client who has a very nice Magritte for sale.”

“Oh, all right, but can I give you a nightcap at my place?”

“You bet,” Brett said, handing the waiter one of Florence Tyler’s credit cards.

Ginger lived in a ground-floor rear apartment in a town house, with a little garden out back.

“It’s lovely,” Brett said, when Ginger switched on the garden lights.

“It’s just a year’s sublet,” Ginger said. “It belongs to a friend of the family who’s in Europe.”

“What’s that low, shed-like thing?” Brett asked, pointing.

“Oh, that’s a hotbox. It’s like a tiny greenhouse, where you can get things growing early in the season, then plant them when it gets warm enough. At least, that’s what I saw on Martha Stewart. I’m not really a gardener.”

“Me either,” Brett said, stroking Ginger’s cheek with the back of her fingers. She kissed the woman lightly, and got a warm reception. A moment later, they were working on each other’s buttons.

When they reached the bedroom, Brett lay back and let Ginger have her way with her. Brett wasn’t a lesbian, strictly speaking, but she liked this. When she had had a couple of orgasms, she rolled Ginger onto her stomach. “Now it’s your turn,” she said. She reached down and picked up a Hermès scarf where Ginger had dropped it on the floor, and quickly bound Ginger’s hands behind her.

“I’ve never done it like this,” Ginger said.

“You just leave everything to me, sweetheart,” Brett replied. She rolled the girl over on her back. “Now the feet,” she said, grabbing a belt from the pile of clothing beside the bed.

“What are you going to do to me?” Ginger asked, half anxiously, half eagerly.

Brett picked up a pad and a pencil from the bedside table. “Well, first, I’m going to need your office number.”

“What?”

“Your office number, and I’ll bet you have one of those voice mail systems. I’m going to want your boss’s extension number, too.”

“I don’t understand,” Ginger said.

Brett placed a pillow over her face and pinched her hard in a tender place. When the scream was over, she removed the pillow. “Ginger, you do exactly as I tell you. Do you understand?”

Ginger gave her the phone and extension numbers, and Brett wrote them down. Then she found her handbag and removed a straight razor from it.

Ginger was attempting to squirm off the bed now, and Brett grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back. She held her hand over Ginger’s mouth, then placed the razor against her throat and drew it lightly across her skin, raising a hairline of red. “When I take my hand away,” Brett said, “don’t scream, or I’ll hurt you badly.” She took her hand away.

Ginger was crying now.

“That’s very good,” Brett said. “You keep that up. Now here’s what we’re going to do, Ginger: I’m going to dial your office number and your boss’s extension, and when his voice mail answers, here’s what I want you to say. What’s his name?”

“Mr. Arnold,” Ginger sobbed.

“You say these words exactly. ‘Mr. Arnold’—you’re sobbing—‘this is Ginger. I’m afraid there’s been a death in my family, and I have to fly back to Indianapolis tonight. I’m going to be away for at least a week, and I’ll call you when I know when I’ll be back. I’m awfully sorry about the short notice.’ Did you get that?” Brett pressed the razor against her throat again, eliciting another paroxysm of sobbing.

Brett began dialing the number.

“I’m not going to say that!” Ginger said, suddenly collecting herself.

Brett hung up the phone and held the razor to Ginger’s left breast. “You’ll do it exactly that way, or I’ll slice your nipples off, Ginger.”

Ginger began sobbing again, but she nodded.

Brett dialed the number, waited, then dialed the extension number. She held the phone to Ginger’s lips and the razor to her nipple.

Ginger performed admirably, Brett thought.

Brett waited a full minute after Ginger stopped struggling before removing the pillow from her face. She checked for a pulse, then listened at her chest for a heartbeat. Nothing. She untied Ginger’s hands and released the belt from her feet. She went into the kitchen and found a pair of kitchen gloves, a bottle of spray cleaner and a cloth, then she rubbed down the body, carefully removing any possible trace of a fingerprint or her own body fluids. She got a clean bedspread from a linen closet and rolled Ginger’s body in it, leaving her on one side of the king-sized bed. She pulled her panties on, then got into a pair of Ginger’s jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers, then she switched off the garden lights, went outside, and looked around. She couldn’t see any neighbors at their windows. She opened the hotbox, which was empty, and noted two large bags of potting soil leaning against the fence. She went back inside, hoisted Ginger’s body over her shoulder, looked around outside, then went into the garden and dumped the body into the hotbox. She emptied both bags of potting soil over the body, covering it completely, then tossed in a few flowerpots that were lined up against the garden fence.

Having worked up a sweat, Brett went back inside, stripped off her clothes, and took a hot shower, never removing the rubber gloves. When she had dried herself and her hair, she cleaned the hair from the shower drain and saved it, then walked around the apartment, naked, selecting things. She found a good suitcase and packed some of Ginger’s clothes. She found her passport in a desk drawer—Ginger Harvey, her full name was—then emptied her briefcase on the bed and took the wallet and credit cards, putting them into her own bag.

When everything was packed and in order, she got into bed, set the alarm clock for five a.m., and went immediately to sleep.

When the alarm went off, she rolled up Florence Tyler’s clothing and effects, then stripped the bedcovers, put them into the over-and-under washing machine in the kitchen, added detergent and a generous amount of bleach and switched it on. She ate a breakfast of juice, fruit, yogurt, and coffee while the things washed, then she put them into the dryer. While they tumbled dry, she put fresh sheets and a new duvet cover on the bed, then dressed in Ginger’s best suit.

Finally, she folded the laundered bedcovers and put the contents of the lint filter and her hair from the shower drain into a plastic bag, rolled it into Florence Tyler’s things. She went around the apartment with the spray cleaner again, obliterating any possible trace of herself. Satisfied, she tucked Florence Tyler’s clothes under her arm, picked up Ginger’s suitcase, let herself out of the apartment and the building, and began walking down Lexington Avenue. After a block, she stuffed Florence’s things into a street-corner wastebasket and caught the next bus downtown.

When she got off, she was Ginger Harvey.