“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dino said, watching the needle on the speedometer pass a hundred.
“Do you really know a Colonel O’Brien in Poughkeepsie?”
“He spoke at a dinner I went to last year. We didn’t quite meet.”
In Poughkeepsie they made their way to Sing Sing Prison, showed their ID at the gate, and were directed to a parking spot.
“Anybody know we’re coming?” Stone asked, as they got out of the car.
“I called the warden’s office before we left. We’re to ask for the captain of the guard.”
They entered a door marked VISITORS, presented their IDs at the desk, and asked for the captain of the guard.
“You’ll have to check your weapons,” the desk clerk said.
Dino handed over his pistol, and Stone opened his coat to show that he was unarmed.
A thickly built, crew-cut, uniformed man in his fifties appeared in the reception room and waved Dino and Stone through a door, locking it behind him. “And you wanted to see…?” he asked, not bothering to introduce himself.
“Herbert Mitteldorfer, Captain,” Dino replied, looking at Stone and shrugging at the man’s coldness.
“Wait a minute,” the man said, picking up a wall phone in the hallway. “Johnson?” he said. “Bring Herbie Mitteldorfer down to reception one; he’s got visitors.” He hung up the phone and led them on down the hallway to another locked door.
“Is Mitteldorfer a trusty?” Dino asked the man.
“Yeah.”
“Was he, by any chance, out on the town last night?”
The captain stopped before a door. “He gets to shop for office supplies in the town; he’s always back inside by five P.M.”
“Yesterday, too?”
“Yesterday, too.”
He unlocked the door, let them walk into the room, and slammed it behind them.
Dino sat down in a steel chair and rested his elbows on the table. “What’s with that guy?” he asked. “Some reception for the NYPD, huh?”
“You didn’t see his name tag?” Stone asked.
“No.”
“His name is Warkowski,” Stone said.
“War…?” Dino stopped in mid-name.
“We’ll be lucky to get out of here without serving time,” Stone said.
Ten minutes of dead time passed before another door opened and a guard escorted a small man into the room.
“There you go, Herbie,” the guard said. “Let yourself out and lock the door behind you when you’re through.” He handed the prisoner a key.
Herbert Mitteldorfer was five-six, 130; he had gone bald on top and gray on the sides; his hair was cut short, not the longer, frizzier hair of Stone’s memory. He stared at Dino and Stone. “Well,” he said, “to what do I owe this great pleasure?”
“Sit down,” Dino said. “We want to ask you some questions.”
“I think I read in the papers that you, ah, retired, Mr. Barrington,” Mitteldorfer said, taking a seat. “Do you spend your time visiting prisoners now?”