Shoot First(Stone Barrington #45)(49)

“Funny, I thought it was.”

“I didn’t think it was funny, and I have a great sense of humor.”

“That’s what people with no sense of humor always say.”

She sighed. “I’m tired of this,” she said.

“We have that in common, if little else.”

“Stone, I am no longer comfortable with this contentiousness.”

“Then may I suggest, in the kindest possible way, that you not put up with it anymore and conduct your search for an apartment from a hotel? I’ll have Fred drive you to any one you like.”

She threw off the covers and marched into the bathroom. The hair dryer could be heard for a while, and it was followed by the sounds of suitcases being opened, packed, and closed again.

Stone buzzed Fred and asked him to get the car ready and to come and get her luggage. “Then take Ms. Harmon wherever she likes,” he said, and hung up.

Fred knocked on the door just as she was leaving the dressing room, fully dressed.

“Come in,” he shouted.

Fred came in. “Yessir?”

“Her luggage is in the dressing room.”

Fred collected the bags and took them downstairs.

“Well,” she said.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” Stone said.

“So do I,” she said, walking out of the room and slamming the door.

“I meant an apartment!” he shouted after her. He muted Joe Scarborough’s daily rant about small government, then went back to his Times.



* * *



—

AN HOUR LATER, as Stone was getting dressed after his shower, the phone buzzed. “Yes?”

“There are two homicide detectives down here,” Joan said, “and they want to see you.”

“Tell them to go—”

“No, no, no!” Joan said. “I’m not telling them that; they might arrest me.”

“Have they shown you an arrest warrant?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

“Tell them I’ll be right down.” He knotted his tie and slipped on his jacket.



* * *



—

“GOOD MORNING, gentlemen,” he said, walking into his office to find the two men on his office sofa, drinking his coffee. “How can I help you?”

“Good morning, Mr. Barrington,” one of them said. “We’d like to ask you some questions about a couple of corpses on Park Avenue.”

Stone refreshed their coffee cups. “Get out your notebooks, gentlemen,” he said, “and your recording devices.”

They did so, and Stone launched into an account of his every moment since meeting Meg Harmon in Key West, covering every detail of his visit to Gino Bellini’s apartment and the events taking place there. An hour later he went to his desk, took out Bellini’s pistol, and handed it to one of them. “Do you have any questions?”

The two men looked at each other. “I don’t believe so,” one of them said, tucking away his recording device. “We’ll call you if anything comes up.” They shook hands with him and left.

Five minutes later, Joan buzzed him. “Dino, on one.”

Stone pressed the button. “What?”

“Were you nice to my detectives?” Dino asked.

“I gave them coffee and bored them rigid for an hour,” Stone replied.

“Are you still pissed off about last night?”

“Certainly.”

“Did you take it out on Meg?”

“Probably.”

“Can I speak to her to ascertain whether she’s still alive?”

“If you can find out what hotel she’s staying in.”

“And how would I do that?”

“Start with The Pierre and work your way down.”

“Dinner tonight?”

“Will Viv be there?”

“No, she’s still in California.”

“Call me when she gets back. I’ll need someone to talk with over dinner.”

“Have a nice day,” Dino said, then hung up.





37




Tommy Chang stirred from his sleep, wondering what had awakened him. The doorbell rang a second time. Tommy struggled out of bed and padded to the front door of his small house in his boxer shorts and bare feet.

A uniformed messenger of some sort stood there, holding a box. Tommy opened the door. “You need a signature?”

“Yes, please,” the man replied, holding out an electronic device with a pen attached.

Tommy signed, took the package, and went back inside. He considered diving back into bed for another couple of hours, but a glance at the clock on the wall told him that he had already used up that time. He went into the kitchen, began the coffee by switching on the drip pot, then put an English muffin into the toaster oven and pressed the start button.

He looked at the box and could not find a return address. He figured it must be from Dirty Joe, because who else would be sending him things by overnight delivery? He hefted the package, and it felt as if there might be a book inside. He wondered for a moment if he had made anybody mad enough at him to send him a bomb, decided he had not, then found a box cutter and opened the box. Inside was a shipping envelope, sealed and pre-addressed, plus a business envelope. He opened the business envelope and read the letter inside, which appeared to have been printed from a computer file. It did not begin with a salutation or end with a signature.