Dirty Work (Stone Barrington 9)

“Yep,” an EMT replied, “both of them.”

“Then get the hell out of my crime scene.”

The EMTs gathered their gear and left.

Dino bent over Sir Edward. “One in the chest, one in the head. Very professional.” He looked at the men’s-room attendant. “Poor schmuck,” he said. “Wrong place at the wrong time.”

A uniform stuck his head through the doorway. “Lieutenant, we got an FBI guy up at the bar. He’s the only witness.”

“Let’s go,” Dino said to Stone. He marched up the stairs and to the bar, where an EMT was doing something to the back of a young man’s head. There was a glass of brown liquid before him, no ice. He took a big swig.

Dino removed the glass from his hand and set it on the bar. “This is how the FBI recovers from a tap on the head?” he asked. “I’m Bacchetti, NYPD. What happened, and get it right the first time.”

“I was sitting here, watching the people entering the hall to the dining room. My partner was in the dining room with the director, his deputy, and his guests.”

“Who were . . . ?”

“Deputy Director Robert Kinney, Sir Edward somebody or other, the dead man, and a woman who works—worked for him.”

“Go on.”

“Sir Edward came down the hall looking for the men’s room. I went with him, and then the woman—”

“Wait a minute, what woman?”

“There was a woman sitting next to me at the bar.”

“She was sitting next to you, or you were sitting next to her?”

“Well . . .”

“I’m glad we got that cleared up.”

“Anyway, I went down with Sir Edward and checked out the men’s room. There was nobody in there but the attendant. I was waiting outside the door for him to finish when the woman came downstairs.”

“Describe her.”

“White female, thirty to forty, five-six or -seven, a hundred and thirty pounds, long, dark hair, wearing a black cocktail dress and black gloves.” He looked longingly at the glass on the bar. “A real looker.”

“Very good description,” Dino said. “At least you learned something at the academy. What happened next?”

“She asked me if I was armed, and I showed her my gun. She pulled a black, small-caliber pistol with a silencer from her handbag, took my gun, and pushed me ahead of her into the vestibule inside the men’s-room door. She must have clocked me with either her weapon or mine. I passed out. When I came to, she hit me again. I only woke up five minutes ago, and I got on my radio.”

“So where are all your people?”

“On the way.”

Dino looked at the back of the man’

s head. “Get him to a hospital,” he said to the EMT. “He’s going to need lots of stitches.”

The EMT and his partner escorted the agent down the stairs; Dino and Stone followed. They had only just seen him into an ambulance when a procession of dark vans drove into the block, and men in body armor and helmets, carrying automatic weapons, began spilling out of them, “FBI” emblazoned on their backs.

Dino stood in front of the door and held up his badge. “NYPD,” he said. “Who’s in command?”

A man in a suit got out of the front seat of a van and walked over, flashing his ID. “I’m Jim Torrelli, agent-in-charge of the New York office of the FBI,” he said. “You’re in the way of my men.”

“No, I’m not,” Dino replied. “They’re in the way of this city’s traffic. Please get them out of here.”