“I don’t want to talk about it on the phone.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes if traffic’s good.” Stone hung up, went down to the garage and backed his car out. He headed down FDR Drive, crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and was parking in front of Herbie Fisher’s building twenty-one minutes later. A light was burning in the basement apartment. “I told him not to show any lights,” Stone said aloud, slamming the car door.
Stone went down the short flight of steps and rang the outside doorbell. Bob Cantor answered it quickly. “Follow me,” he said. He led the way into the apartment and stopped.
Stone looked around. The place had been torn up yet again.
“Check that out,” Cantor said, pointing at the sofa.
Stone followed his finger and saw a line of blood spatter starting on the back cushions of the sofa and continuing up and onto the living room wall. “Oh, Christ,” Stone said, “they’ve killed Herbie.”
He felt overwhelmed with guilt; he’d sent Herbie back here, and they’d found him.
“No,” Cantor said, shaking his head. “This way.” He led the way toward the kitchen. Lying in the hallway was a corpse, and it wasn’t Herbie.
“It’s Cheech, I think,” Stone said. “He and the other guy worked for Dattila or his bookie. They’re the ones who beat up Herbie outside Elaine’s.” The man had a bad cut across the jugular and a butcher knife in his chest.
“Okay,” Cantor said, “now I call the cops.”
“Right.”
Cantor flipped open his cell phone and dialed 911. “My name is Robert Cantor,” he said into the phone. “I’m a retired police officer. I want to report a homicide.” He gave the operator the address, answered a few questions, then hung up. “I think we should tell them I arrived here when you did.”
“Okay, but I just can’t see Herbie doing this; he’s not the type.”
“A cornered rat will fight a pit bull,” Cantor said. “You think I should wipe the prints off the knife?”
Stone shook his head. “Herbie’s going to get made for this, and we can’t cover it up. But given the history, we can make a clear case for self-defense.”
“I guess,” Cantor said. “I hope they don’t send the two bozos who were here last time.”
“Me, too.”
The bozos were replaced by a detective of about forty, accompanied by an attractive young woman who, Stone guessed, had a very new gold shield.
Stone and Cantor showed their NYPD I.D. “My name is Stone Barrington; this is Bob Cantor. We’re both retired homicide detectives.”
“My name’s Ed Cardoza,” the male detective said. “This is my partner, Emily Swift. What’s happened here, gentlemen? We heard of a homicide.”
“This way.” He led the detectives to the corpse. “There’s a backstory here,” Stone said.
Cardoza knelt and looked closely at the body. “I can’t wait to hear it,” he said.
“I’m an attorney,” Stone said. “I represent the man who lives here, Herbert Fisher.”
“Is this Fisher?”
“No. That’s a professional gorilla named Cheech, who works for Carmine Dattila. He and a buddy of his, whose name I can’t remember, are collectors for a bookie who’s owned by Dattila. Fisher owes twenty-four grand, and the two gorillas have beaten him up twice and kidnapped him once. Fisher was hiding out here from them. My theory is that they found him, attacked him, and Fisher somehow got hold of a kitchen knife and defended himself.”
“That’s a good theory if you’re a defense lawyer,” Cardoza said.
“It’s the only thing that could have happened,” Cantor said. “It’s not like Herbie would have invited them here, then killed one of them.”
“And what’s your connection to Mr. Fisher?”
“He’s my nephew, my late sister’s boy.”
“Okay. Let’s say your theory is good,” Cardoza said. “Where’s Herbie Fisher? And while we’re at it, where’s Cheech’s partner in crime? Gorillas tend to travel in pairs.”