Worst Fears Realized (Stone Barrington 5)

Dino got out his cell phone and started dialing, then stopped. “Stone, are you sure it was Mitteldorfer? I’m damned if I can remember exactly what he looked like.”

“He looked just like the perp, that’s what he looked like.”

Dino resumed dialing. “This is Bacchetti. Dig up a record on a Herbert Mitteldorfer.” He spelled it. “Sent up eleven or twelve years ago for murder. I want to know what joint he was sent to and what his current status is. I’ll hold.” He looked up at Stone. “Two’ll get you ten he was paroled last week.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Stone said.

“You remember much about this guy?” Dino asked.

“Not much. Not very big; tightly wound; borderline psycho, I’d say.”

“But what the hell would he have against you?”

“I arrested him, remember?”

“Yeah, but so did I, and so far, he isn’t out there killing people I know.”

“So far,” Stone said.

Dino’s face fell. “Oh, Jesus,” he said.

Stone muttered something.

“What did you say?”

“I said, ‘worst fears realized.’”

7

D INO WAS DOING A LITTLE OVER A HUNDRED miles an hour on the New York State Thruway when the flashing lights appeared in his rearview mirror. Stone reflected that Dino always drove as if he’d just stolen the car.

“Well, shit,” Dino said. He dug into the glove compartment for his flasher, set it on the dashboard, and plugged it into the cigarette lighter. When he saw the flashing light, the state trooper turned on his whoopers.

Dino slammed on his brakes, nearly causing a rear-end collision, then, in a spray of gravel, ground to a halt on the shoulder. He got ou

t his badge, rolled down the window, and waited for the trooper to come to him. The man was on the radio, obviously checking Dino’s plates.

“Dino,” Stone said wearily, “the speed limit on the thruway is sixty-five miles an hour. Why can’t you drive seventy-five or eighty, like a normal human being?”

“Like you never drive fast,” Dino replied.

The beefy young trooper appeared in the driver’s window.

Dino held up his ID. “And what the fuck do you want?” he asked pleasantly.

“I want your driver’s license and your registration,” the trooper said, not quite as pleasantly.

“You’re looking at the only ID you’re going to get from me,” Dino said. “If you can read, you’ll see that I’m a lieutenant in the New York City Police Department. I’m on my way to Sing Sing on official business.”

“Your license and registration, and don’t make me ask you again,” the trooper said through gritted teeth.

Dino reached into an inside pocket for his cell phone, causing the trooper to jump back and put his hand on his pistol. “Tell you what,” he said, “let’s just call Colonel Joe O’Brien at the Poughkeepsie station and tell him that Trooper”—Dino squinted at the man’s name tag—“Warkowski is impeding a triple-homicide investigation of the NYPD by acting like a rookie asshole.” Dino started punching in a number.

“All right, all right,” the trooper said, holding his hands out in front of him. “Just slow it down, okay?”

“Tell you what, Warkowski,” Dino said. “You wait right here for a couple hours and you’ll see me going south again at a hundred and twenty.” Dino slammed the car into gear and left the trooper standing in a cloud of dust at the roadside.

“You really know how to make friends, Dino,” Stone said. “I’ve always said that about you.”