“Yes?”
“I’m going to run out to Brooklyn; Herbie Fisher is missing and Bob is concerned.”
“I thought it was awfully quiet around here,” Joan said.
Stone hailed a cab and gave the driver the address. It was weird, he reflected, how Herbie’s sudden absence could leave a hole in his day. He couldn’t say he missed the idiot, but still…
Bob Cantor was standing on the sidewalk in front of a handsome brownstone in a gentrified neighborhood. “This way,” he said, opening the iron gate and taking the stairs that led to the basement. “He lives in the super’s apartment.”
Cantor let them in with his key and scooped up a pile of mail on the floor outside the apartment. He opened the front door.
“Let’s do this like a crime scene,” Stone said.
“I’m way ahead of you,” Cantor said, handing Stone a pair of latex gloves. He led the way from the foyer into the living room. The room had been tossed-no, more than tossed, trashed. A bookcase holding an elaborate stereo system lay facedown on the floor, its contents smashed. Every piece of upholstered furniture had been slashed to the springs, and the drawers of a small desk were scattered here and there. An inspection of the single bedroom revealed the same treatment, and even the bathroom had been thoroughly turned over.
“What do you think they were looking for?” Stone asked.
“Money, what else?”
“And why would anybody think Herbie has money?”
“Well, he’s always telling anybody who’ll listen that he does. I guess somebody believed it.”
“I suppose so.”
“You think this is Carmine Dattila’s work?”
“Who else?”
“Well, I’m sure he’s not the only person Herbie owes money,” Stone said.
“Maybe not, but Dattila is probably the only lender with a personal army to do work like this.”
The two men stood in the apartment with but one thought between them.
“You think Herbie is still alive?” Cantor asked.
“I think that depends on whether Herbie can convince them that he has some hope of paying,” Stone said. “It’s time to call the Brooklyn cop shop.”
21
Stone sat on the arm of a formerly overstuffed chair in Herbie Fisher’s apartment and watched the two detectives pick their way around the apartment.
“Well, so far,” Detective One said, “this is vandalism, as I see it.”
Detective Two nodded in agreement.
“It’s kidnapping, possibly a homicide, with burglary,” Stone said.
Detective Two shook his head. “I don’t see anything missing.”
Stone sighed. “If you could see it, it wouldn’t be missing.”
“Huh?”
“Herbie had money here; you see any money?”
“Well, no, but how do we know there ever was any money here?”