Dirt (Stone Barrington 2)

“How is she? And your daughter?”

“The wife is the same, maybe a little fatter. Mary Ann is married to the law, you will remember.”

“That must be a little touchy,” Hickock said.

“We manage to get along, mostly by not talking. He’s not a bad fellow, for a cop. I bought them an apartment on the East Side; Mary Ann has never liked Brooklyn.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

“Well, she’s my only daughter, you know, and she’s a tough one, like me. She gets what she wants, always.” He tucked Hickock’s arm into his. “Let’s walk.”

Hickock moved with him and, arm in arm, they promenaded slowly around the empty floor.

“I’m sorry we have to meet like this, but the feds are everywhere these days, have everything bugged. I can’t even talk in my car anymore, and we had to lose a carload of them before coming here today.”

“It’s all right; I understand. I’m just glad you could take the time.”

“Something’s wrong, eh?” Bianchi asked.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Tell me about it.”

“There are two young men who have been circulating rumors about me; they have almost cost me my marriage.”

Bianchi made a noise. “That is awful, to attack a man’s personal life. Is this a business thing?”

“They seem to know more than they should about my business. An employee has talked out of turn.”

“And you want me to, ah, speak to this employee?”

Hickock shook his head. “No; I can take care of him whenever I like. But the two young men are out of my reach.”

“But, perhaps, not out of mine?” Bianchi said, chuckling.

“I hope you are right. They have been very elusive; I have names, but they may be false; I have no address, but they are circulating around the fashionable quarters of Manhattan.” Hickock pulled a copy of Vanity Fair from his overcoat pocket and opened it. “But I have a very good photograph of one of them. He calls himself Jonathan Dryer.”

Bianchi stopped walking, fished a lighter out of his jacket pocket, and struck it, studying the photograph. “A good-looking boy,” he said. He closed the magazine and tucked it into his own overcoat pocket.

“Yes, he seems to do well with the ladies. The other one has used the name Geoffrey Power, and maybe G. Gable.”

“What else can you tell me about these young men?”

“They resemble each other – so much so that they may be brothers. One of them has recently arrived from L.A. One or both of them has some considerable skill as a burglar; he has broken into several large apartments and stolen cash, jewelry – always men’s wristwatches – and a pistol with a silencer attached. One of them may have killed a retired police officer with the stolen pistol.”

“So the police are already looking for them?”

“No, not yet; there hasn’t been enough evidence to connect them to the murder. I have no hard information whatever about these two; everything I have told you is just guessing.”

“How did you come by what you have already told me?”

“I hired an investigator.”

“His name?”

“Stone Barrington. You know him?”

“I know of him; he is a friend of my son-in-law, the cop.”