Shoot First(Stone Barrington #45)(57)
“I was afraid you were going to say something like that,” Stone said.
Bob hopped down. “The other one, too?”
“Yes, but just a minute, I’ve got a question.”
“I bet I know what it is,” Bob said. “Can I trace the camera to somebody?”
“That’s the question,” Stone said.
“The answer is no. However, as I was getting on the elevator, a guy was getting off, and two things about him struck me.”
“What was that?”
“I thought it was funny that, in a classy hotel like this, he was carrying his own luggage. Unusual.”
“What else?” Stone asked.
“In addition to a regular suitcase, he was towing a pretty big aluminum case, the kind that might contain guns or tools. Or both. And he was in a hurry, went right out to where a car was waiting for him.”
“Did he introduce himself?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“I was afraid of that. Give me a description.”
“About five-ten, a hundred and seventy, and he looked Asian—coal-black hair and slightly slanted eyes—maybe half-Asian. Very fit-looking, too, martial arts type.”
“That’s all you got?”
“No, I got a look at the luggage tag on the aluminum case. Joe Cross, Islamorada, Florida.”
“You have just identified a dead person,” Stone said.
“How do you know that?” Bob asked.
“Because I saw him shot dead, in Maine, a few days ago.”
“Well,” Bob said, “I guess somebody stole his tool kit.”
They went back into the living room.
“Let me guess,” Meg said. “You can’t tell who put the cameras in, and you can’t trace him.”
“Not exactly,” Stone said.
“What does that mean?”
“It means that, with a little luck, we might find the sonofabitch.”
“Well, that’s good news,” Meg said. “Sort of. What do we do with him then?”
“I haven’t gotten that far, yet,” Stone replied. “Meg, I think we should move you back into my house.”
“I’ll start packing,” she replied.
“Bob,” Stone said, “have you got a plastic bag? Might be worth trying to get some prints off those cameras.”
“Sure thing,” Bob said, opening his toolbox. “I can do that for you, and since I know what my prints look like, there won’t be any mix-ups.”
43
Stone called Fred, who collected them and Meg’s luggage and drove them home. All the way home, Stone thought about the cameras and the man who had installed them.
Fred took Meg’s luggage upstairs to her dressing room. Stone buzzed Joan.
“Good morning,” she said. “Sleep well?”
“What do you mean by that?” Stone asked.
“A simple inquiry into your health and well-being,” she said.
“Thank you. You remember that time we used that private dick in Key West for that thing?”
“Sure.”
“Have you got his name and number?”
“I’ll need ten seconds,” Joan replied, then put him on hold and came back. “Not Key West—Sugarloaf Key,” she said.
“That’s close enough.”
“His name is Paul Toppino. Shall I get him for you?”
“Please,” Stone said. He waited until she buzzed him.
“Paul on line one.”
“Paul?”
“Stone?”
“How are you?”
“Just great. How ’bout you?”
“Not bad. I need to find a guy in the Keys, maybe Islamorada.”
“I do that sort of thing. What’s his name?”
“I don’t know, but he has a friend in Islamorada.”
“Okay, what’s his friend’s name?”
“Joe Cross.”
“Dirty Joe? What do you want with him?”
“Just his friend.”
“That’s just as well, because Dirty Joe bought the farm up in Maine a few days ago. It made the Key West Citizen.”
“Yeah, I was there at the time.”
“Really? Did you shoot Dirty Joe?”
“No, but I was standing next to the guy who did. I’ll tell you about it when I see you, but what about his friend?”
“The one whose name you don’t know?”
“That one.”
“You got a description?”
“Five-ten, a hundred and seventy, black hair, fit-looking. Might be Eurasian.”
“Tommy Chang. That’ll be fifteen hundred dollars.”
“You know the guy?”
“Sure, he’s Dirty Joe’s business partner.”
“Doing what?”
“The two of them own a little charter flight business and flying school at Marathon Airport. They’ve got a Baron and two or three Cessnas. Tommy does some avionics work, too, installing radios and GPSes, and the like. Tell me something, when Dirty Joe got shot by your friend, was he trying to shoot your friend?”