Hit List (Stone Barrington #53)(32)
* * *
—
They set down at Teterboro early enough to beat rush hour, cars waited for both Lance and Dino. Stone got their luggage into Dino’s car, but Lance waved him over.
“Come ride with me,” he said.
Stone got into Lance’s Agency SUV, and they left.
“This Weaver’s background troubles me,” Lance said. “It’s one thing having a mad killer running around taking revenge on his former coworkers, but it’s another thing to have the work conducted by hardened pros.”
“I agree,” Stone replied.
“Then I’m going to have some of my people watch over you.”
“Work it out with Mike Freeman,” Stone said. “We don’t want the two groups shooting each other.”
“I will do so,” Lance said.
“This includes Vanessa?”
“I’ll leave her to Strategic Services; hard to justify the expense.”
“Fair enough.”
* * *
—
They pulled up in front of Stone’s house half an hour later, and Stone got out.
“Nice airplane,” Lance said.
“Thank you, Lance.”
“And thanks for the lift.”
“Anytime.” Stone went inside through the office door.
“Hey, boss,” Joan said, slipping her .45 back into its desk drawer. “Where’s the lovely Vanessa?”
“At her lovely apartment. She was homesick.”
“You’ll be dining in, then?”
“I haven’t decided. I’ll let you know.”
“There’s a stack of stuff on your desk.”
“I’ll unstack it.”
“Including one that was delivered by hand.”
Stone went into his office, sat down at his desk, and reached for the envelope on top.
Barrington,
If you’re reading this, then you’re still alive, but not for long. Jim Weaver was my friend, and he didn’t deserve what he got. I’ll see that you have time to think about that while you’re dying yourself. You have that to look forward to.
Stone didn’t know why it wasn’t signed, but he wished he could write a retort. He called Vanessa.
“Hey.”
“Hey, yourself. I suppose you got back all right. Everything okay there?”
“Not quite, you’re not here.”
“We’ll just have to tough it out,” he said. “I don’t think either of us should be traveling tonight.”
“You have a point.”
“Tomorrow night looks good. Dinner here?”
“You’re on. I’ll see you at the usual time, and I’ll bring my toothbrush.”
Stone hung up, already looking forward.
26
The following morning Lance called before Stone was out of bed. Lance scrambled, then said, “The news from here is not good.”
“What’s the news?” Stone asked.
“Sig Larkin had three buddies he served with and worked with later, when he was at the Bureau.”
“I guess one of them, James Weaver, is dead.”
“Good guess, but not the other two: Clifford Cox and Terence Hardin. Cliff and Terry, to you.”
“Why do you think they’re involved?”
“Because they were always involved when Larkin had dirty work to do.”
“I hope Cox and Hardin are more identifiable than Larkin.”
“They are. I’ve e-mailed you photos, so take a look. See you later.” Lance hung up.
Stone went to his e-mail and found the two attachments. Both photos seemed to have been taken when the two were still on active duty with the marines: they were in uniform and had whitewall haircuts. Cox had a big mustache, while Hardin just wore a sneer. Stone called Lance back, and they scrambled.
“Thanks for the photos,” Stone said. “They’re what—ten, fifteen years old? You think they still have whitewall haircuts?”
“Sorry about that,” Lance said. “They appear to have avoided being photographed since then.”
“Are your people on station here yet?”
“They are. There are four of them per shift, and Mike’s people have gone home. My people have the photos.”
“What caliber are these people?”
“They usually carry .45s,” Lance replied.
“I was referring to their brains. Can they wrap them around the age of these shots?”
“We don’t hire stupid people,” Lance said. “By the way, my guess—and it’s only a guess—is that Larkin and his cohorts are sufficiently pissed off about Weaver’s death to forget about the rest of the hit list and concentrate on you. So now the hardened pros are angry hardened pros. Good luck.” He hung up.
Stone hadn’t needed to hear that. He got up and took an Alka-Seltzer to keep his breakfast down.
* * *
—
Stone had just sat down at his desk when Dino called. “I’ve gotta come uptown for an early-afternoon meeting. You want lunch?”