Wild Card (Stone Barrington #49)(63)

“Goddammit, I canceled the four contracts!” Damien shouted.

“Keep your voice down, or I will walk away.” Harod looked around the area for threats. “I showed you my phone. I got no messages or texts.”

“Don’t you see what this means?” Damien asked. “As soon as they identify the women, they’ll be coming for us. We may have to leave the country.”

“There’s no need to panic,” Harod said. “They’ll question you, and you were in your office at the time. They can’t connect you to Avin or me. You’re safe. Do you still want to cancel the other three contracts?”

“Yes, for now,” Damien said.

“Then I’ll have the money, as per our agreement.”

“It’s in the briefcase between my feet,” Damien said. “Two hundred thousand dollars, as agreed.”

“Then, when you reactivate the other contracts, there will be no further charge. Now go.”

Damien rose and left, leaving the briefcase under the bench.

Harod’s phone rang, and he checked the caller ID. Avin’s phone; the police had found it. He switched off his iPhone, removed the data card, and ground it under his heel before kicking it into the grass. He then picked up the briefcase and laid it across his knees. It was beautiful, he thought, brand-new. He wanted to see the money. He placed his thumbs on the latches and pressed.

His world exploded in fire.





49


Rasheed Khan, the third member of Harod’s team, sat and stared at his phone. He had called both Harod and Avin, and the calls had gone straight to voice mail. The TV was on, and a story came up about two killings at Bloomingdale’s. Avin had called him earlier and said he was following the Grants there, so the women had to be them. But a man was dead, too, described as the assassin; that had to be Avin. But where was Harod?

Rasheed left the apartment and walked the three blocks to the East River, where Harod liked to go and sit. From a block away, it was clear that something was wrong. There was police tape across the street at the end of the block, and patrol cars and uniforms on foot were everywhere. He turned away and went into a coffee shop, where he ordered tomato soup and tea. Surreptitiously, he removed the data card from his iPhone and replaced it with another, then he dropped the old one into the remains of his soup. Harod and Avin had the new number, and he had their spares. He called them both and got nowhere.

He went back to the apartment, packed his things, and wiped it down. He dropped Harod’s and Avin’s clothes down the incinerator, then left the building. He walked four blocks to the backup safe apartment that was their last line of defense. From there, he would have to make his next move carefully.



* * *



? ? ?

Elise and Elena Grant entered Stone’s building through the downstairs office and were greeted by Joan.

“Thank goodness you made it out safely,” Joan said.

“It was a close call,” Elise said, then told her their story.

“You’re safe here,” Joan said. “Would you like to see your new apartment?”



* * *



? ? ?

Stone and Dino left the club and rode downtown in Dino’s SUV. They stopped at Bloomingdale’s, where a big police operations van was parked on Third Avenue, partly obstructing traffic. Two EMTs were putting a body, hidden by a sheet, into their wagon.

Dino got out. “I want to see this guy,” he said, hopping into the rear of the wagon and pulling the sheet back.

“Two in the chest, Commissioner,” an EMT said.

Stone, who had no interest in the corpse, waited outside. A moment later Dino joined him. “Just a kid,” he said, “no older than his mid-twenties.” Dino went and conferred with the officer in charge, then he and Stone went back to Dino’s car. “Below the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge,” he said to his driver. “Ashore on the Manhattan side.”

“What’s under the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge?” Stone asked.

“The remains of what used to be a man,” Dino said.

“Any connection to the shooter at Bloomingdale’s?”

“Not yet,” Dino said, “but I’ve got a feeling.”

They drove as close as they could to the scene, then got out of the car. Dino sought out the detective in charge and collected a salute or two.

Stone looked around. A man’s left arm, in a sleeve, lay on the grass, and on the wrist a Rolex was still ticking. Cops in cotton booties were searching every inch of the sidewalk and the lawn next to it.

“Got something!” a cop yelled, holding up a hand to identify himself.

A crime scene tech made his way carefully over to the cop and, as Stone watched, took out a pair of tweezers and picked up something. “Cell phone data card!” he yelled to his supervisor.

“Bring it home, and let’s run it.”

Stone walked up to where Dino was speaking with the on-scene supervisor.

“There must be a dozen security cameras round here trained on this scene,” Dino said.

“Four, so far,” the officer replied.

“I want to see the results, ASAP. E-mail them to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dino took Stone’s arm and guided him back toward his car. “They found a piece of an American passport; they’re running it by the State Department now.”