Dirty Work (Stone Barrington 9)

“England would have looked like this in the eighteenth century,” she said, “before we denuded the country of forests.”

They drove alongside a creek and passed an old mill. “Now that’s my idea of New England,” she said, “taken mostly from picture postcards.”

They drove through Bridgewater. “Another twenty minutes,” he said.

“Take as long as you like,” she replied. “I’m enjoying it.”

They came to Washington, and Stone turned left, then, after a short distance, left again. A couple of hundred yards along, he turned into his driveway.

“Oh, it’s lovely!” They got out of the car, and Stone took their luggage from the trunk.

“It was originally the gatehouse for the big place next door,” he said.

“Who lives there?” she asked, looking over at the large Shingle-style house.

“A writer, until recently, but he moved to the city. A movie producer bought it, but he hasn’t moved in yet.”

“Still, you have a lot of privacy,” she said, “with the trees and the hedge. And I love the turret.”

Stone unlocked the door, entered the alarm code, and adjusted the thermostat. “Can I get you a drink?”

“I’d love one of your bourbon whiskies,” she replied, walking around the house, inspecting the new kitchen, the mahogany floors, and the comfortable furniture. She chose a sofa and sat down.

Stone brought in their drinks and sat down beside her. “We’ll need to go to the grocery store soon. It closes at six-thirty.”

Dino was clearing his desk, getting ready to go home for the day, still tired from lack of sleep the night before, when a message generated by a 911 call popped onto his computer screen. A shooting on Park Avenue? That hardly ever happened. Through the glass wall of his office, he saw two detectives rise from their desks. They were next on the rotation, and they would take the call. He would tag along, just to see what people were doing to each other on Park Avenue these days. Anyway, it was on his way home.

The block had been closed off, creating a huge, rush-hour traffic jam. Dino got out of his car, ducked under the crime-scene tape, and found a uniformed officer. “What happened?” he asked.

The officer pointed at the body of a man, lying facedown on the sidewalk, leaking blood. Two EMTs were just turning him over.

“As soon as they pronounce him, throw a sheet over the body and open the street,” Dino said to a sergeant as he approached the body. “Whataya got?” he asked an EMT.

“Looks like two, maybe three, to the back of the head,” the EMT replied.

“You calling it?”

The EMT nodded.

“Okay,” he said to the sergeant. “Run it down for me.” His two detectives had arrived and were ready to take notes.

“The building doorman saw the guy fall,” the sergeant said, “but he didn’t hear anything. A woman—a blonde, medium height and weight, thirties—walked away from him, hopped onto the back of a light motorcycle, and was driven north on Park. That’s about it.”

“Two or three gunshots, and he didn’t hear anything?”

“That’s what he says. We haven’t found anybody else who saw what happened.”

“It’s an execution,” Dino said, “using a silencer. The lady was a pro. Who’s the dead guy?”

“Mohammed Salaam, works at one of the UN embassies, about four blocks down, between Park and Lex. He was carrying a diplomatic passport.” He showed it to Dino.

“Sounds political,” Dino said. He turned to the detectives. “Report it to the FBI after the scene has been milked dry. Tell the techs to hurry it along, and get the body off the street as soon as you can. We’ve got traffic backed up to Forty-second Street, and even opening Park isn’t helping because of all the rubbernecking. I do not want to hear from the commissioner, or worse, the mayor, about this. Do you understand?”

“Yes, boss,” the senior detective said.

Dino got into his car. “Take me home,” he said. “Use the siren, if you have to.” He dialed his captain’s cell phone.

“Grady,” the captain said.