Fresh Disasters (Stone Barrington 13)

“Because nobody will serve him?”

“You got it.”

“How about you?”

“Stone, detective lieutenants of the NYPD do not do process serving.”

“Not even for a thousand bucks?”

Dino looked hurt. “You wound me.”

“Will you go with me for backup?”

“Neither do we sell backup services to process servers.”

“Will you drive me down there and wait?”

“In whose car?”

“I guess mine; you won’t use a squad car?”

“Good guess.”

“After lunch?”

“Why not? Somebody needs to bring the body back.”

A couple of years before, Stone had wandered into the Mercedes dealership on Park Avenue with a fat check in his pocket and a yen for some German engineering. He had driven away in a lightly armored E55 sedan that had been ordered by a man who had feared for his life, but the car had arrived a couple of days late. The deal was with the widow, with the salesman taking a cut. It had saved Stone’s life only once, but that had made it a bargain.

Now they made their way into Little Italy, with Dino at the wheel, and Dino, Stone reflected, always drove as if he had just stolen the car.

Dino screeched to a halt directly in front of the La Boheme coffeehouse, a dingy storefront with a cracked front window. “Are you carrying?” he asked Stone.

“You bet your ass,” Stone said.

“Gimme,” Dino said, holding out his hand.

“You want me to go in there naked?”

“You’re going to end up naked anyway, and it will inspire trust if they don’t find hardware when they frisk you.”

Stone tugged the little Tussey custom.45 from its holster and handed it to Dino. “I’m going to want that back,” he said.

“If you still need it,” Dino replied, admiring the beautiful weapon. “What does it weigh?”

“Twenty-one ounces.”

“Nice,” Dino replied.

“I said, I’m going to want it back; don’t get too comfortable with it.”

“What, you want to be buried with it?”

Stone opened the car door. “You’re a ray of sunshine, you know that?”

“I’m a realist.”

“I’ll be back shortly.”