Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels (122 page)

Carpenter was jarred awake by the slamming of the door. Her hand was immediately on the Walther. She was in bed, naked, and she could hear somebody whistling in the sitting room of the Carlyle suite. It was only Mason. She got out of bed, brushed her teeth with the hotel's toothbrush, found a robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door, and walked into the sitting room, running her hands through her hair. She hadn't borrowed a hairbrush.

“Good morning,” Mason said cheerfully. His jacket and Eton tie were draped across a chair, and his shirt was open at the collar.

“Good morning,” she said, not meaning it. She had never seen him, in any circumstances, without his Eton tie.

Mason waved a hand at the rolling table. “We've got eggs, kippers, and sausage, and that wonderful fresh orange juice they get from Florida.”

She was surprised to find that she was hungry, and she sat down and began lifting dish covers, dropping them on the floor.

“Sleep well?”

“Yes, but not long enough,” Carpenter replied. “You?”

“Like a top. The sofa was quite comfortable.”

“Mason, have you
ever
been uncomfortable in your entire life?” she asked. Wherever they went, Mason always seemed to bring along his father's campaign furniture, or a down sleeping bag, or a portable bar.

“Not since the Army,” Mason replied thoughtfully.

She knew he had served in the SAS, the Special Air Services, Britain's toughest commando outfit. “Describe to me a single occasion when the Army managed to make you uncomfortable.”

“Northern Ireland,” he said after a moment's thought. “I was in Londonderry, keeping an eye on a house where we thought one of those Real IRA chaps might turn up. It was raining, and my Land Rover had a leaky canvas top, and the rain kept dribbling down my neck. Oddly enough, I was more comfy after the bomb went off. I was upside down, but the canvas top was more comfortable if you were lying on top of it, with the vehicle over you. It didn't leak that way.”

“Oh,” she said. She took a big bite of eggs with a little kipper. “Had any overnight reports?”

Mason paused for a moment, then assumed a more somber mien. “Tinker is dead,” he said, “and Thatcher is in hospital, a couple of blocks from here, at Lenox Hill.”

Carpenter swallowed hard and put down her fork. “She got
both
of them?”

“Well, she got Tinker. She didn't quite
get
Thatcher, if you see what I mean. He's still alive.”

“How did she do it?”

“Ice pick, apparently. You can still buy them at ironmongers' here. Did you know that?”

“I did not.” She thanked God that her firm did not require that she write letters to the families of those killed on duty. “So La Biche went back to the Harvey flat after all?”

“It would seem so.” Mason sat down and began to eat. “Funny thing,” he said. “I'm ravenous, in spite of the news.”

“It's a psychological thing,” she said. “Relief to be alive when others are dead instills a feeling of well-being, increasing the appetite. It's why people bring food to the families of the deceased. I feel a little hungry, myself.” She began eating again.

“You're out of the Lowell,” Mason said. “Where do you want your things sent?”

She gave him Stone's address.

“Think that's a good idea?”

“I haven't got a better one at the moment. How am I getting out of here?”

“We've got hold of a fishmonger's van. It will pull into the garage downstairs in . . .” He consulted his wristwatch. “ . . . fifty minutes. The fish will come out, and you'll go in, and the van will proceed to the Waldorf, where you and more fish will be delivered. You'll change to a taxi there, to go . . . wherever you want to go.”

“All right,” she said.

“I hope you don't mind the smell of fish.”

“I can stand it as far as the Waldorf. Has anybody talked to Thatcher?”

“Oh, yes. He remembers very little, just the pain. He never saw her coming. Are we going to tell our policemen friends about the Harvey woman?”

“I have already done so,” Carpenter replied. “Lieutenant Bacchetti's people will swarm over her flat at mid-morning.”

“They're going to find fuck-all,” Mason said, stabbing at a sausage.

“I've already told Dino that, but they have to go through the motions. I wouldn't be shocked if they found signs of Tinker and Thatcher's being there. They were obviously not up to this one.”

“I wouldn't be too hard on them,” Mason said. “This woman is quite . . .
extraordinary.
What were your impressions of her when you met her at Clarke's?”

“I'll tell you, if you won't tell anybody else.”

“All right.”

“She was good—so good that I didn't twig until she invited me for coffee somewhere else, which would have been the Harvey flat, I think. I wasn't actually sure until she got into a cab and followed me here.”

“Then she is very good, indeed.”

“She was so
ordinary.
”

“That's what's extraordinary about her, I suppose,” Mason observed. “Someone who can hunt people down as coldly as that, while seeming so ordinary. You think she has an organization here?”

“I'd bet she has a name or two to ring up if she needs something, or if things go sour,” Carpenter said. “She's too good not to have some sort of backup. Did we flag the Harvey passport?”

Mason stopped eating. “I'm not sure,” he said, sounding guilty.

“That means you didn't do it.”

“Well . . .”

“Do it now.”

Mason got up and went to the phone, but it rang before he reached it. He listened for a moment, then held out the phone to Carpenter. “It's for you.” He rolled his eyes upward, as if to God.

Carpenter got up and went to the phone. “Yes?”

“It's Architect.” Her boss, in London.

“Yes, sir?”

“A flight landed at Heathrow this morning with one Virginia Harvey listed on the manifest. “I believe she's called Ginger?”

“Yes, sir.”

“She got onto the airplane, but she didn't get off—at least, she didn't make it to immigration. Her body was found in a ladies' room off the corridor leading from the gate to baggage claim. Her passport was in her handbag, but the photographs didn't match the corpse.”

“They wouldn't, since they were of a different woman.”

“Of course, but you're missing the point.”

Carpenter sucked in a breath. “I think I just got it,” she said.

“We're tracking two other single women who were
on the flight,” Architect said. “Both cleared customs and immigration. One has turned up at her London hotel, the other hasn't been found.”

“That makes sense.”

“So it seems we've taken her off your hands, for the present, at least.”

“It would seem so. I'll be on the next flight.”

“I think you're better off in New York at the moment. You and Mason take a few days. I'm sorry about Tinker. I take it Thatcher will be all right in a few days.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'll be in touch if there's news.” He hung up.

Carpenter replaced the phone in its cradle.

“What?” Mason asked.

“La Biche apparently went from killing Tinker and wounding Thatcher straight to Kennedy Airport, took a flight to London, and after leaving it but before reaching baggage claim, murdered another woman, took her purse, and left Ginger Harvey's in its place. She's loose in London.”

“Mmmm,” Mason said. “I suppose I should have flagged the Harvey passport last night.”

“She thought we wouldn't move that fast,” Carpenter said. “And she was right.”

Stone, Dino, Bob Cantor, and Herbie Fisher got off the airplane at Kennedy. Dino flashed his badge at customs, and the moment they were through, Stone felt a handcuff close on his wrist. He looked at it and found Herbie on the other end.

“I'm not taking any chances,” Dino said.

“I have to go to the john,” Herbie said.

“There's one,” Dino said, pointing. “You two guys have a nice time.”

“Come on, Dino,” Stone said. “Unlock them.”

“I'm not taking them off,” Dino said, “unless I cuff both Herbie's hands behind him, then you can help him in the john. That okay?”

Stone went into the men's room with Herbie and waited impatiently while he used the urinal, then they found Dino's car waiting for them outside and got in. Stone got out his cell phone. Dino got out his own.

Dino dialed. “Gimme the deputy DA's office,” he said.

Stone dialed. “Tony,” he said, “are you in court?
In ten minutes? I've got Herbie, but we're twenty minutes, half an hour out. Can you stall Judge Kaplan? Do your best. Tell her the subway broke down.” Stone hung up.

“George?” Dino said, “Dino Bacchetti. . . . Yeah, you too. Listen, I'm going to save you some time: One of your people is dealing with a Herbert Fisher, charged with manslaughter in the Larry Fortescue case. . . . Right, his appearance is in about ten minutes. Thing is, I've been reliably informed that Fisher's fall through the skylight didn't cause Fortescue's death. . . . No, he was poisoned, and by a pro, so he was already dead when Fisher hit him. . . . No, I'm not kidding you, I've had a look at the autopsy report. . . . From an intelligence source. This thing is real cloak-and-dagger. Also, these people tell me that Fisher actually did them some good, because he took a photograph of the woman who killed Fortescue. . . . Come on, George, could I make this up? . . . What do I want? George, manslaughter sure isn't going to stick, and, given the help Fisher was to these people, I'd kick the other charges, if I were you. I think it's better if this just goes away. . . . My interest in this? My interest is keeping egg off my face, and that oughta be your interest, too. . . . Okay, kiddo. Talk to you later.”

Dino hung up and turned to Stone, who was occupying the backseat with Herbie. “George is going to talk to the ADA on the case. He's on his way to the courtroom now.”

“You mean this is all going to go away?” Herbie asked.

“Shut up, Herbie,” Dino said. “You're not out of the woods yet. We've still got to get you to court before Kaplan realizes you're not there.”

“Turn on the siren, Dino,” Stone said.

Dino turned on the siren. “Not that it makes a hell of a lot of difference at this hour.”

 

Twenty minutes later, as the bailiff was calling the
State of New York v. Herbert Fisher,
Stone walked into the courtroom with Herbie in tow. He turned over Herbie to Tony Levy.

“What's happening?” Levy whispered.

“Keep your mouth shut and let the ADA do the talking,” Stone said.

“Mr. Levy,” Judge Kaplan said, “I guess you want bail continued?”

Levy was about to open his mouth when the ADA, a short woman in a bad suit, spoke up. “Your Honor, this office is dropping all charges against Mr. Fisher at this time.”

Kaplan looked at the young woman askance. “You're dropping murder two? What's going on here?”

“This office has learned that the victim died of other causes before Mr. Fisher, ah, intruded on the scene.”

“Well, I never,” Kaplan said.

“Neither did I, Judge,” the ADA replied, “but our information is from a reliable source.”

“Okay, Mr. Fisher, you're off the hook. Bail will be refunded.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Levy said. He walked
Herbie back to the rear of the courtroom where Stone was waiting. “How did you pull that one off, Stone?” he asked.

“You don't want to know,” Stone replied.

Levy pulled Stone aside. “I believe you owe me five big ones,” he said.

“No, five is your fee for lying to a judge. You didn't have to do that. I'll send you a grand today.” He grabbed Herbie and walked him out of the courtroom, leaving Levy to wonder what had just happened.

“Well,” Herbie said, “I'm outta here.”

“Yes, you are,” Stone said. “And if you breathe a word of what Dino told the DA to anybody at all, including your mother, you're going to find yourself back in this courtroom.”

“Jesus, I love this cloak-and-dagger stuff,” Herbie said. “Tell me what happened in that apartment that night.”

“Herbie,” Stone said, “if I told you, I'd have to kill you.”

“You gonna have some more work for me soon?” Herbie asked.

“No, Herbie, I'm not.”

“Why not? This one worked out okay, didn't it?”

“No, Herbie, it didn't. You nearly went to prison, and you nearly cost me a quarter of a million dollars.”

“But it worked out okay. Nobody got hurt.”

“That's not what I call working out okay,” Stone said, “and you'll never know how close you came to getting hurt by me.”

“I'll give you a ring next week and see what you've got for me,” Herbie said hopefully.

“Herbie, if I ever see or hear from you again, I'm going to have a word with the people who dealt with what happened in that apartment, and they're going to make sure that you never give anybody a ring again.”

Herbie gulped. “You mean . . .”

Stone nodded gravely. “If I were you, I'd be on the next flight to Saint Thomas, and I'd
never
come back to New York.”

Herbie backed away from him, nodding, then he turned and ran.

Stone hoped the kid could get to the airport without his help.