“What’s going on?”
“Carrie said you wanted us to have a conversation with the guy staked outside your house.”
“Yes, that’s right. Is he Max Long’s?”
“Apparently not. Never heard of Max, in fact, and he doesn’t even know anybody in Atlanta.”
“Then what’s he doing out there?”
“Watching you.”
“For whom?”
“We couldn’t get him to say, not even with Peter’s hat pin, but somebody’s paying him well.”
“Oh, shit,” Stone said.
“A woman. We got that much out of him.”
“Shit again,” Stone said. “Thanks, Willie. Oh, does he have any instructions to hurt me?”
“He wasn’t armed, and I don’t think he’s the hand-to-hand-combat type.”
“Thanks, Willie. Good-bye.” Stone hung up. His very pleasant day had just gone to hell.
32
THE POLICE OFFICER SET a shirt-sized box on Stone’s desk. “Take off your shirt,” he commanded.
“Go fuck yourself and Brian Doyle, too,” Stone replied politely.
The man fished an envelope from a pocket and handed it to Stone. The return address in the corner belonged to the police commissioner. “Read this,” he said.
“I’m not touching that,” Stone replied.
The man tore open the envelope and extracted a sheet of paper. “I’ll read it to you,” he said.
“I’m not listening,” Stone replied, placing his fingers in his ears.
“Memo to personnel division!” the officer shouted. “ ‘Detective Second Grade Stone Barrington, retired, is hereby restored to active duty in the First Precinct under the command of Lieutenant Brian Doyle until further notice. Signed, et cetera, et cetera.’ Got it?”
“Stop shouting,” Stone said, removing his fingers from his ears. “I can hear you.”
The officer dug into another pocket and came out with a wallet containing a detective’s shield and an ID card with a very old photograph of Stone. “This is for you. Now take off your shirt. Orders from Lieutenant Doyle.”
“The police commissioner can’t draft somebody into the NYPD,” Stone said.
“He can, if you’re a retired cop on a pension,” the officer said. “Read your retirement papers.”
“Do they really say that?” Stone asked.
“Read ’ em yourself. Now take off your shirt, or I’ll tear it off you.”
Stone said a bad word and stood up, unbuttoning his shirt. “What’s in the box?” he asked.
“The latest in fashion,” the cop said, opening the box and holding up a gray undergarment. “They say it’ll stop anything that doesn’t have an armor-piercing tip.”
Stone fingered the garment. “Feels rough.”