“Anything else?” Cantor asked.
“Not at the moment.” Stone hung up and called Dino.
“Lieutenant Bacchetti.”
“I just got a call from Carrie’s husband, from a cell phone. He may still be in town; will you run the number for a location?” Stone gave him the number.
“I’ll get back to you,” Dino said, then hung up.
Stone shaved, showered, and dressed, then he took the Times down to his study with a second cup of coffee. He had finished reading the paper and was on the crossword when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“It’s Dino. Your guy was calling from LaGuardia, at a gate that a Delta flight is scheduled to depart from in five minutes. He may have already been on the plane.”
“Thanks, Dino.”
“Dinner?”
“Sure. See you then.” Stone hung up and called Bob Cantor.
“Cantor.”
“Bob, Max Long called from LaGua
rdia, and he’s apparently on a Delta flight to Atlanta, leaving now.”
“I’ll have somebody pick up on him there and follow him home. You want my guy to say anything to him?”
“You might have him give Long the impression that he’s under constant police surveillance, without using those words.”
“Give me a description.”
“Get that from Carrie,” Stone said. “I’ve never seen the man. I just know that he’s tall and slim.”
“Will do,” Cantor said. He hung up.
Stone went back to the crossword. It was a bitch, as it often was on Saturdays. He was still working on it nearly three hours later when Cantor called back.
“Hello?”
“It’s Cantor. My guy met your guy and imparted your suggestion to him. He’s tailing him now. I ran his license plate, but it’s still registered to the Habersham Road address; he didn’t bother to change it after moving. I’ll call you back when I get an address.”
“Good going,” Stone said. He went to the kitchen, made a ham and mozzarella sandwich on whole grain, toasted it, and brought it back to the study with a Diet Coke. He finished it and was down to the last couple of impossible words on the crossword when Cantor called again.
“Got a pencil?”
“In my hand.”
“Max Long drove to an apartment complex in northeast Atlanta called Cross Creek. Nice place, with a golf course. My guy couldn’t follow him past the guard at the gate, but fifty got him the address: 1010 Cantey Place. His phone is unlisted, but I’ll have it for you later. You want my guy to surveil?”
“For a couple of days.”
“I can put a watch for his name on the Delta reservations computer,” Cantor said.
“Great idea. That’ll give us some notice if he decides to come back, and we can have him met at LaGuardia.”
“Consider it done,” Cantor said. “By the way, Max Long is six-three, two hundred pounds, longish dark hair going gray, broken nose. I’ll do a search for a photo; shouldn’t be hard to come up with one.”