“So did everybody else.”
“That means Dattila has somebody in the D.A.’s office, too. Jesus, New York law enforcement is turning into a sieve. You think Herbie’s dead?”
“Probably not. Why would they kidnap him again? Who would spend ten minutes with him who didn’t have to? Dattila’s already on tape saying he wants Herbie dead, so the hit man was obviously sent there to shoot him. Also, some expense money was missing from one of the cops’ pockets, and his gun was gone, too. That doesn’t sound like a pro.”
“So Herbie’s on the loose with some cash, and he’s armed. Has Bob Cantor heard from him?”
“Nope.”
“And Herbie hasn’t called you, either?”
“Nope. I don’t know if he even got out of the hotel with his cell phone. We had an arrangement where he’d call in every day. I hope he sticks to it.”
“Herbie has more lives than any three cats I know,” Dino said.
“Yeah. Gus’s death is a big blow, though. I thought Dierdre would send Dattila up for life, and that would bolster Herbie’s civil suit. Even if Herbie lives to testify, he can only nail Dattila for kidnapping and attempted murder.”
“Dattila’s what, fifty? He might get enough time to keep him in the rest of his life.”
“I’m not counting on it, and if he gets Herbie, he won’t do any time at all. Any news on Devlin Daltry?”
“I’ve got six people on it, including a knockout blonde detective who’s six-feet-one.”
“That’s encouraging, and I need encouraging.”
“I’m expecting to hear more tonight,” Dino said.
Detective Willa Bernstein parked her Camaro Z80 across from the Art Scene Gallery. Detective Shelly Pointer, who was in the passenger seat, leaned forward and looked into the gallery. “You think Daltry is in there?”
“A magazine interview I dug up on the Internet said that he loves other artists’ openings, and he goes to all the big ones. This one-a painter named Jason Griggs-is tonight’s big one. Why don’t we go and find out?”
“Okay.”
“Don’t go in together,” a voice in Willa’s ear said.
“Thanks, we figured that out,” she replied. All five detectives could hear her and talk to her on the new equipment. “Shelly’s going in first to case; I’ll wait to hear from her.” She nodded at Shelly, who got out of the car, crossed the street and went into the gallery.
Willa took deep breaths to calm herself. Two minutes later, Shelly spoke into her ear. “Bingo,” she said.
“On my way.” Willa got out of the car and crossed the street. She could see her partner’s car ahead of her, and she knew the other car was behind. She walked into the gallery, stopped and looked around. She didn’t see Daltry, so she walked to the bar, where a lot of glasses of wine were arrayed, and picked up some white. Then she saw Daltry, standing in a group near a huge painting. She sidled over and stood, staring at the big oil, but nothing happened. From the corner of her eye she could see Daltry still talking with the group.
Willa walked around the knot of people gathered around Daltry and stopped before the next painting, careful not to look at him. She took a sip of the wine and winced.
“Was that expression for the wine or the painting?” a voice asked.
She turned a little to her right and found Daltry at her elbow; he came up to about her collarbone. “Both,” she said. “The painting is not so hot, and the wine is even worse.”
“Jason has never deserved his reputation, and the wine, well, my guess is it’s made in a basement somewhere in Queens.”
Willa laughed. “The painting could have been made there, too.”
This time Daltry laughed. “Have you seen the rest of the show?”
“No, I just got here.”
“Let’s take a quick walk through,” Daltry said. “By the way, I’m Devlin Daltry. Who are you?”
“I’m Willa Bernstein. Are you the sculptor?”