Dirty Work (Stone Barrington 9)

“How do I get to Red Hook?”

Cantor gave him directions and the name of his boat. “It’ll take you half an hour, forty-five minutes.”

“All right,” Stone said. “Herbie is going to call you. Count on it. When he does, tell him to come to Red Hook, and don’t tell him you’ve talked to me. I think he thinks that if I find him, I’ll take him back to jail.”

“Is that what you want to do?”

“No! I want to get the charges reduced to a misdemeanor and get him probation. He’s got a court appearance in about thirty-six hours, and if he misses it, it’s going to cost me a hell of a lot of money.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to the kid, Stone.”

“Don’t talk to him, let me do that. If he somehow gets there before I do, play dumb and sit on him.”

“Whatever you say,” Cantor replied.

Stone hung up. “We’re going to Red Hook.”

“I want to go to bed,” Dino said. “It’s midnight.”

“Later.” Stone began picking his way toward Red Hook.

Carpenter jumped. There had been a noise outside her door. She grabbed her handbag, extracted the little Walther, and screwed in a silencer. The Carlyle would not appreciate gunfire in their hallways. She ran across the room in her bare feet and checked the peephole. Nobody visible. She flattened herself against the wall and waited.

The doorbell rang, and she jumped again. She didn’t open it.

“Carpenter!” somebody said from the hall.

She checked the peephole again. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Mason,” he replied.

He wouldn’t use that handle if he were at gunpoint. She unchained the door and opened it, stepping back, the pistol ready, just in case.

Mason walked in. “It’s all right, I’m alone.”

“Why the hell are you alone?” she demanded. “Don’t you know who we’re dealing with?”

“Of course I know who we’re dealing with,” he said in his upper-class drawl.

“And why didn’t you call before you came up? I could have shot you.”

“I was supposed to call?”

“Oh, never mind. Where is everybody?”

“I sent two men to the Harvey apartment. We’re waking up more.”

“She’s around this hotel somewhere,” Carpenter said, “I can feel it.”

“Give me a description, and I’ll circulate it.”

“Early thirties, five-five, a little under nine stone, medium brown hair, shoulder length, black eyes . . .”

“Black eyes? Nobody has black eyes.”

“All right, ver

y dark brown. She’s dressed in a business suit, carrying a handbag that looks like a briefcase. God knows what’s in there.”