Dirty Work (Stone Barrington 9)

Carpenter swallowed hard and put down her fork. “She got both of them?”

“Well, she got Tinker. She didn’t quite get Thatcher, if you see what I mean. He’s still alive.”

“How did she do it?”

“Ice pick, apparently. You can still buy them at ironmongers’ here. Did you know that?”

“I did not.” She thanked God that her firm did not require that she write letters to the families of those killed on duty. “So La Biche went back to the Harvey flat after all?”

“It would seem so.” Mason sat down and began to eat. “Funny thing,” he said. “I’m ravenous, in spite of the news.”

“It’s a psychological thing,” she said. “Relief to be alive when others are dead instills a feeling of well-being, increasing the appetite. It’s why people bring food to the families of the deceased. I feel a little hungry, myself.” She began eating again.

“You’re out of the Lowell,” Mason said. “Where do you want your things sent?”

She gave him Stone’s address.

“Think that’s a good idea?”

“I haven’t got a better one at the moment. How am I getting out of here?”

“We’ve got hold of a fishmonger’s van. It will pull into the garage downstairs in . . .” He consulted his wristwatch. “ . . . fifty minutes. The fish will come out, and you’ll go in, and the van will proceed to the Waldorf, where you and more fish will be delivered. You’ll change to a taxi there, to go . . . wherever you want to go.”

“All right,” she said.

“I hope you don’t mind the smell of fish.”

“I can stand it as far as the Waldorf. Has anybody talked to Thatcher?”

“Oh, yes. He remembers very little, just the pain. He never saw her coming. Are we going to tell our policemen friends about the Harvey woman?”

“I have already done so,” Carpenter replied. “Lieutenant Bacchetti’s people will swarm over her flat at mid-morning.”

“They’re going to find fuck-all,” Mason said, stabbing at a sausage.

“I’ve already told Dino that, but they have to go through the motions. I wouldn’t be shocked if they found signs of Tinker and Thatcher’s being there. They were obviously not up to this one.”

“I wouldn’t be too hard on them,” Mason said. “This woman is quite . . . extraordinary. What were your impressions of her when you met her at Clarke’s?”

“I’ll tell you, if you won’t tell anybody else.”

“All right.”

“She was good—so good that I didn’t twig until she invited me for coffee somewhere else, which would have been the Harvey flat, I think. I wasn’t actually sure until she got into a cab and followed me here.”

“Then she is very good, indeed.”

“She was so ordinary.”

“That’s what’s extraordinary about her, I suppose,” Mason observed. “Someone who can hunt people down as coldly as that, while seeming so ordinary. You think she has an organization here?”

“I’d bet she has a name or two to ring up if she needs something, or if things go sour,” Carpenter said. “She’s too good not to have some sort of backup. Did we flag the Harvey passport?”

Mason stopped eating. “I’m not sure,” he said, sounding guilty.

“That means you didn’t do it.”

“Well . . .”