Dirt (Stone Barrington 2)

“Ten-eleven Fifth Avenue, Apartment Nine-A. Doorman says they might be up there right now.”

“Thanks, Ernie; we’ll be in touch.”

“I’ll have to phone this in, but I’ll wait an hour, okay?”

“Yeah, that’s good, Ernie.”

“Don’t forget to tell him.”

But the man had already hung up.

Martinez found a coffee shop on Madison and settled himself on a stool with his paper, a cup of coffee, and a doughnut.

It was dark now, and Arrington hadn’t returned. Stone was getting worried. He found her diary with the name of her appointment at the magazine, and he called the editor.

“This is Stone Barrington; I’m a friend of Arrington Carter. I believe she had an appointment with you this morning.”

“That’s right,” the woman said. “We had lunch after that.”

“What time did she leave you?”

“Sometime after three. She said she was going to Bloomingdale’s.”

“Thanks very much,” Stone said, then hung up. He looked at his watch. Bloomingdale’s had been closed for forty-five minutes. She had said she was going to her old apartment, hadn’t she? He dialed the number, but only got her answering machine. He heard the beep. “Hello, Arrington? Are you there? If you’re there, pick up.” He waited a moment, but she didn’t answer. “If you get this message, call me at home.” He hung up. He’d wait a few minutes, then call again.

Richard Hickock rode up in the freight elevator, and when he emerged onto the empty factory floor it was dark. A moment later, half a dozen low-wattage bulbs came on, and Enrico Bianchi stepped from behind a column.

“You’re late, Dick,” Bianchi said. “I’ve been waiting over an hour.” He did not sound happy.

“I’m sorry, Ricky, we were stuck in the Midtown Tunnel the whole damned time; there was a big pileup. When we got out I called your beeper, but there was no answer.”

Bianchi ran a hand over his hair. “I don’t like to wait, Dick.”

“I apologize, Ricky; there was nothing I could do.”

Bianchi did not seem mollified. “So what’s the big emergency?”

“I want to call off the search for those two men,” Hickock said. “Something has happened, and it would be very bad for me if anything happened to them.”

“Dick, what is this on-again, off-again thing? You should know I don’t do business that way. What has happened?”

“They’re blackmailing me, that’s what. They’ve threatened to turn me in to the IRS and to send incriminating information to the media.”

“How much do they want?”

“Three million dollars. I’ve already wire-transferred the money.”

Bianchi looked astonished. “Dick, you shouldn’t have done that; you should have come to me and let me handle it.”

“I only had until close of business, Ricky, and they said that they had left the documents with other parties, and if anything happened to them it would be sent out. That’s why you have to call off the search; I can’t afford for anything to happen to them now.”

“Dick, don’t you know that’s what all blackmailers say? That they’ve left the pictures or the documents or whatever with a lawyer who has instructions if anything happens to them? They never do it; they never believe anything will happen to them. I think it would be best if we just leave things as they are. I’ve already had a tip that they might be in an East Side apartment. Someone is on the way there now.”

“Ricky, you’ve got to stop them; I can’t afford to find out the hard way if they’re lying. I’d rather pay them the money.”

“Then they’ll want more, Dick, don’t you know that? If you’re willing to pay them three million dollars on the basis of an unsubstantiated threat, they’ll bleed you again and again for years to come, until there’s nothing left. You just let me handle these two guys.”

“I can’t do that, Ricky. You’ve got to call off your men.”