Dirt (Stone Barrington 2)

He got to his feet, stuck the gun into his pocket, and took her in his arms. “I’m sorry I took so long,” he said.

She sagged into his arms. “It’s okay,” she replied. “As long as you made it.”

He laid her across the bed and pulled the bedspread over her. She seemed to have fainted. When he was sure she had a pulse and no wounds, he went back into the living room. The man he had hit was on his feet. Stone aimed the gun at his head. “I’m not going to tell you again to lie down! Spread-eagle, now!”

The man obeyed.

Stone frisked him, found a knife, threw it into the kitchen. There was a roll of duct tape on the kitchen counter; he went to the man and taped his hands behind his back. “You just relax,” he said. “I’m going to get you some help.”

He found the phone and dialed 911.

“Nine-one-one,” a woman’s voice said. “Which emergency service do you require?”

“Police,” he replied.

“Police,” another woman’s voice said. “What is the nature of your emergency?”

Stone looked around him, uncertain how to sum it up. “My name is Stone Barrington; I’m a retired police officer. There are four men shot at Ten-eleven Fifth Avenue, Apartment Nine-A, three dead, one wounded. I need an ambulance and the police.” She started to ask him some other questions, but he hung up and called Dino at the 19th Precinct.

“He’s on his way home,” a clerk said.

“Thanks.” Stone hung up and called Dino’s portable phone.

“Bacchetti,” Dino said.

“It’s Stone. You’d better get over to Arrington’s apartment; I’ve got a fine mess for you.”

“Is Arrington all right?”

“Yeah, she’s okay. The Bruce brothers are not, and I’ve got one dead wiseguy and one wounded.”

“You call nine-one-one?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be right there.” Dino punched off.

Stone took a moment to look around the apartment. A laptop computer sat on Arrington’s desk, connected to her printer. A single sheet of paper lay in the out tray; he picked it up and read it. Next to the computer was a stack of three Federal Express packets, one addressed to the NYPD, one to the New York Times, and one to the Commissioner of Internal Revenue. After reading the final issue of DIRT, it was not hard to figure out what was in them. He picked up two of the packets, went to Arrington’s large handbag on the floor beside the sofa, and tucked them into the bag. Then, starting to feel shaky, he sat down on the sofa and took a few deep breaths. His face and his hands were sweaty; he tucked the pistol into its holster, got a handkerchief from his pocket, and began to mop his face. Then he began to feel nauseous. He bolted for the bathroom.

Chapter 59

The bicyclist pulled up a couple of doors down from the address he had been given and got off the machine. It was a ten-speed racing bike, and he was dressed to use it – tight cycling pants, a nylon jacket, a helmet, and very large yellow-tinted goggles. He leaned against a tree and waited, consulting his watch. Half an hour passed, then the woman emerged from the building, just as he had been told she would, dressed in a ball gown and a fur jacket. The chauffeur braced at the rear door of the Mercedes S600; she got into the rear seat, and the car pulled away from the curb.

“We’re going to the Plaza Hotel, Paul,” Amanda said. “I expect to be there until about eleven. We’ll go to the front door.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Paul said. “Mrs. Dart, would you mind if I stop at a drugstore and pick up some aspirin? I’m getting a headache.”

“Of course, Paul; we have time.” Amanda pressed the switch that raised the rear sunshade, giving her some privacy, then leaned back, her neck against the headrest, and took some deep breaths. Amanda could sleep in seconds, and she often took advantage of slow automobile trips in Manhattan, where the average speed of traffic was four miles per hour, to rest. “I’m going to take a quick nap, Paul,” she said. “Please don’t disturb me until we’re arriving at the Plaza.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Paul replied.

Amanda liked to think of something pleasant as she fell asleep. She thought about her lunch date with Dick Hickock the following day, and it made her smile.

The cyclist followed the car down Lexington Avenue; traffic was heavy. The car stopped for two lights, but the cyclist wasn’t happy with the layout of traffic. Then something good happened. The chauffeur double-parked in front of a drugstore, put his emergency blinkers on, got out of the car, and went into the store. Perfect.

The cyclist maneuvered to the right of the car, where the woman was sitting, her head against the headrest, her eyes closed, mouth slightly open. He checked the door lock button; it was up. He stepped off the bicycle, leaned it against a parked car, and reached under his jacket. His hand emerged holding an icepick. The chauffeur’s absence made his pistol unnecessary.

Quietly, he opened the rear door of the Mercedes. The woman seemed to be sleeping. He took a wad of Kleenex from his jacket pocket, then, holding her head back with his left hand on her forehead, he drove the icepick up her nose and into her brain. Her eyes opened wide, but she didn’t have time to cry out, or even to move. He jerked the handle of the icepick back and forth, in order to do as much damage as possible. She slumped, and a trickle of blood ran from her nose. He stanched it with the Kleenex, and she stopped bleeding. Her heart was no longer pumping blood.