Dirt (Stone Barrington 2)

“Well, clearly it won’t blow over if we leave Stone Barrington to his devices. Eventually he’ll unearth the whole thing.”

“Yes, I suppose he will,” Hickock agreed.

“I think it might be best if we terminated his investigation and turned to, shall we say, other means.”

Hickock turned and looked her in the eye. “Just what means did you have in mind, Amanda?”

“Consider this, Dick: More than the DIRT business is involved. Dryer, or perhaps Power, or both, may have caused the death of a police officer-a retired one, but nevertheless…”

“Jesus Christ.”

“So far the police are not officially involved in the investigation of these two men, but if Stone – or anyone else, for that matter – should come up with evidence linking the two to the murder, then the whole can of worms – DIRT, Window Seat, everything – will be opened up.”

“Yes, I see that. So Dryer and Power are the immediate problem.”

“Yes. Surely you have con

nections with people who make a business of solving troublesome problems by more direct means.”

“Such as who?”

“Well, you did have some help in solving your labor problems last year, didn’t you? A consultant, so to speak?”

Hickock looked around him. “I think we’ve talked enough about this, Amanda.”

“Probably.”

“I understand the parameters of the problem now. Will you call off Stone Barrington?”

“Of course, darling, if you think that’s best.”

“I do.”

Amanda looked up. “Oh, here comes your steak, darling.” She watched as the perfectly grilled slab of meat was set down before him. “Why ever haven’t you already had a coronary?” She tested her salmon with a fork.

“I give other people coronaries,” Hickock replied, sawing off a hunk of beef and stuffing it into his mouth.

Amanda tucked into her salmon, secure in the knowledge that, while she had probably solved the DIRT problem, she had also ingratiated herself with Richard Hickock, at the same time letting him know that she knew. That knowledge would certainly be useful at some later date. The salmon was delicious.

Chapter 48

Richard Hickock got out of his car and tapped on the driver’s window. “I’m going to take a little walk,” he said. “You wait here.”

“Around here, Mr. Hickock?” the driver asked, surprised. They were in a desolate area of the Long Island City section of Queens, amid empty, rundown industrial buildings.

“I’ll be back soon,” Hickock said. He trudged off into a misty rain, down an empty street. Following the directions that had been faxed to him that afternoon, he turned left and crossed the street. The number “ 19” had been spray-painted on the door of a building, but it looked locked. He tried it, and it wasn’t. Inside, he went to a huge freight elevator, pulled a cord that closed the doors from the top and bottom, and pressed the number for the fourth floor. The thing actually worked.

When it stopped he pushed open the door and walked out of the elevator into a large, empty factory area. Daylight was waning, and the low light threw into relief holes in the floor where machinery had once been bolted down. There was no place to sit, so he walked slowly around the floor, wondering at what he was about to do. Suddenly he heard an electric motor running, and a moment later another freight elevator at the opposite end of the floor stopped, and Enrico Bianchi stepped out.

The two men walked from their opposite ends to the middle of the huge floor and embraced.

“Hello, Ricky,” Hickock said. “Thank you so much for coming.” Bianchi was, as always, tanned and slim, and his finely barbered hair had gone snow white.

“Dickie,” Bianchi said, holding him at arm’s length and looking at him. “You lost some weight.”

“Yeah, well, Glynnis made me buy a treadmill.”

Bianchi laughed heartily. “My wife will never get me on one of those.”