Shoot First(Stone Barrington #45)(53)

The young man checked his computer for the name. “It says here ‘Meg,’” he said.

“Michael Edward George Harmon,” Tommy said. “Meg, for short.”

“I see.” He put a new card into a slot and tapped in a code and the room number. “There you are, Mr. Harmon,” he said, handing Tommy a new packet. He thanked the young man, then went to his room. He opened his weapons case, chose a small 9mm pistol, and screwed a silencer into the barrel. Then he stretched out on the bed for a moment. He would wait until the middle of the night to visit Ms. Harmon. He dozed.



* * *



—

TOMMY WOKE UP with sunlight streaming into his room; he checked the bedside clock: 7:20 AM. “Shit,” he said. He had been more tired after the long flight than he had thought. He ordered some breakfast from room service, then shaved and showered. There was a New York Times slid under his door, and he put on a robe and read it until breakfast came.

When he was done, he dressed in a business suit, went downstairs, and crossed the street, carrying the Arts section of the Times. He took up a position on a bench along the wall that separated Fifth Avenue from Central Park and had a good look at the hotel. Room 212, he calculated, was to the left of the front door and one floor up. He took a small monocular from a pocket, concealed it in his fist, and pointed it at the windows. The curtains were still drawn; she must be sleeping late.

He folded the paper open to the crossword puzzle, took out his pen, and began. Twenty minutes later he was halfway through the puzzle and the curtains were open in room 212. He took the folded page from the business magazine containing the article on Meg Harmon and studied the face in the two photographs, committing it to memory. She was a very good-looking woman, he thought.

He began the puzzle again, checking a clue, then checking the hotel’s front door, then writing in the answer and checking the door again. More than an hour passed in this fashion, then finally the hotel door opened and a well-dressed blonde walked outside and was immediately shown into a waiting Town Car, which drove away. He couldn’t find a cab quickly enough to follow her, but at least she was out of her room.

He went back into the hotel and went up to his room. He opened the weapons case and took out some miniature electronics equipment, then he left his room, went into the stairwell, and went down to the second floor, opening the door with his 212 key card. A maid’s cart was a few doors down the hall, and a card saying PLEASE MAKE UP MY ROOM was hanging on the doorknob of 212. He used his new key card to let himself inside, turning the door card over to read PRIVACY, PLEASE.

It was a large, handsome suite, sitting room and bedroom. He went to work installing a tiny camera and a microphone in each room. He wished he’d had a third camera; it would have been nice to install it in the bathroom so he could see her naked. Well, time enough for that, he thought.

He opened the front door a crack, checked for the maid, who was closer now. He turned the card on the door handle over again, then closed the door and took the stairway down to the street.

Might as well do some shopping, he thought. He’d check on Ms. Harmon around six, when she might be changing to go out.





40




Stone was in his office the following day when Joan buzzed him. “Ms. Harmon, on one,” she said.

He picked up the phone. “Good morning.”

“Good morning. I enjoyed myself last evening.”

“So did I.”

“If you’re free this evening, come and have dinner with me at The Pierre.”

“Love to.”

“Come to my room, 212, and we’ll have a drink there.”

“All right, see you then.”

They both hung up.



* * *



—

TOMMY CHANG SLEPT LATE, then checked his cameras in 212 with his iPhone. The rooms were empty, and there was a room-service table there, bearing dirty dishes. She had gone out. He checked the locator app: the blue dot was a dozen blocks downtown and moving. He’d have to make tonight the night.



* * *



—

STONE’S NEXT CALL was from Dino. “Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning,” Stone replied.

“I’ve got some more news, and it isn’t good.”

“Break it to me.”

“Remember Boris Ivanov?”

“The gorilla? How could I forget him?”

“He’s out.”

“What?”

“He lawyered up. A senior partner at Craig and Zanoff showed up and sprung him.”

“That’s a white-shoe firm,” Stone said. “What’s the lawyer’s name?”

“Greg Zanoff.”

“The guy with his name on the door comes down and springs a Russian gorilla? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I guess Selwyn Owaki can buy anybody he likes.”

“I don’t know much about Owaki, just what I’ve read in the papers.”

“Owaki specializes in not having anybody know anything about him,” Dino said. “He does his deals at arm’s length—always has a lawyer or two between him and his customers. He has eight or ten houses in world capitals, lives like a potentate, makes large donations to charities. He’s handsome and charming.”