Cold Paradise (Stone Barrington 7)

“Hello?”

“Morning, Dan, it’s Stone Barrington. I believe you talked to a Lieutenant Lundquist yesterday?”

“Right.”

“I think he’s on the way down here.”

“He must have found out something that got him moving,” Griggs said.

“I think he wants to talk to Paul Bartlett,” Stone said. “I’ve learned that Bartlett didn’t buy a Bentley but a black BMW 750i. Also, he’s moved into the Colony Hotel. I think Lundquist might appreciate it if you put a man on him. He seems to be getting slippery.”

“I can do that.”

“Tell him not to crowd the guy. Our friend Mr. Bartlett is getting nervous, and we wouldn’t want him to bail out before Lundquist has a crack at him.”

“I’ll tell my man to work wide. Thanks, Stone.”

“And I’d appreciate a call if there are any developments.”

“Sure. You learn anything about that protocol ten-oh-two thing?”

“I talked to my old partner in New York. His guess is that Bartlett is, or rather was, in the Justice Department’s witness protection program, and that he jumped ship and set up a new identity on his own.”

“That’s an interesting theory,” Griggs said. “Has he got anything to back it up?”

“No, it’s just his hunch, but I think it’s a good one. By the way, he’s coming down here soon, and I’d like for you to meet him. His name is Dino Bacchetti, and he commands the detective squad at the Nineteenth Precinct.”

“Love to greet him,” Griggs said.

“I’ll bring him by. Take care.” Stone hung up. He pulled into traffic and headed back toward the yacht, and his cell phone rang again.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” Dino said.

Stone could hear a police siren in the background. “Let me guess; you’re on the way to the airport.”

“That’s right,” Dino said. “My flight arrives at two-thirty.” He gave Stone the flight number.

“I’ll meet you. Dino, you’ve got to stop driving around with the siren on. A trip to the airport is not exactly an emergency call.”

“It is if I say it is,” Dino replied. “Traffic is hell on the FDR Drive right now.”

“And the siren helps.”

“You bet your ass it does. How’s the weather down there?”

“Gorgeous,” Stone said, peering through the driving rain at the road ahead, which was barely visible. “I hope you’re bringing a swimsuit.”

“Damn right I am—my golf clubs, too.”

“Great. How about a tennis racket?”

“You know I’m a lousy tennis player.”

“You’re a lousy golfer, too, but you’re bringing your clubs.”

“If that sonofabitch doesn’t get the fuck out of the way, ram him!” Dino shouted, apparently at his driver.