Hit List (Stone Barrington #53)(4)

“Well, apparently, you’ve accepted the fact that you’re in jeopardy, and that’s half the battle.”

“I’d like to win the other half, too,” Stone said.

“Then run scared; that’s half of the other half of the battle. Remember the adman who thought he was just crossing the street when he took a round in the head.”

“Yeah, he never knew what hit him or why,” Stone said.

“I don’t want that to happen to you, sweetie. If you got taken out we’d have to start paying for airplane flights and foreign vacations.”

“Well, we don’t want that to happen, do we?”

“Sleep tight, and watch your ass,” Viv said, then hung up.

Stone reflected, as he hung up, that it was hard doing both those things at the same time.



* * *



—

The following morning, Stone was awakened a little earlier than he was accustomed to when the doorbell rang. He picked up his bedside phone and pushed the button. “Yes?”

“This is Frank Bender of Strategic Services,” a gruff male voice said. “My partner and I are at your front door.”

Why was the man telling him this? “Do you want to come inside?”

“Not at the moment. We’ll stake out the two front doors for right now. After your people come to work, then we’ll cover it from inside.”

“Sounds good to me,” Stone said. He hung up and put his head on the pillow. He was nearly asleep again when the doorbell fired again. “Yes?”

“It’s Frank again. I forgot to ask: Are you armed?”

“To the teeth. Hold your questions for another hour, will you?”

“Sure.”

Stone tried to go to sleep again, but he had been awake for too long, and his mind was at work. He called downstairs for breakfast and turned on the TV. An all-news-all-the-time channel was on, and his list was displayed on one side of the screen. “Here are the people the NYPD thinks may be in danger,” the anchorwoman said. “If your name is on the list, and you live or work in Manhattan, you should have heard from the police by now. If you haven’t, call them, for your own safety.”

“Dino is just going to love this,” Stone muttered to himself. His phone rang. “Hello?”

“Mr. Barrington, this is Henry Parker at Page Six; are you aware that your name is on a death list?”

“I watch TV, too,” Stone replied. “Please don’t call me again.” He hung up. Immediately, the phone rang again.

“This is Henry Parker.”

“Mr. Parker, do you remember calling me less than a minute ago?”

“Sure I do.”

“Then you must remember what I said to you.”

“You mean about not calling you again?”

“That’s it, and yet you called me again.”

“I just have a few questions,” he said.

“Okay, I’m turning the phone off now.” Stone hung up and flipped the switch that turned off all the phones on the fifth floor. Ten seconds later, his cell phone rang. Stone picked it up. “If you call me again, I’m going to come down there and shoot you,” Stone said.

“Why would you want to shoot someone who has your life in his hands?” Dino asked.

“Oh, it’s you. I thought it was that ass from Page Six.”

“You might as well talk to him. Maybe people will stop calling when they know the Post has the story.”

“Anything new?”

“Not a thing.”

“Then why are you calling me in the middle of the night?” Stone asked.

“I just wanted to see if you were still alive, and it’s six-thirty already,” Dino said.

Stone hung up. His cell phone rang again.

“Hello?”

“It’s Dino. I have your cell phone number, you know.”

“In that case,” Stone said, “I’m turning it off.” And he did so.





4


Stone was downstairs in his office by nine o’clock, and Joan was lying in wait for him. “Okay,” she said. “Since I’ve watched the morning shows and read the papers and spoken to the two agents from Strategic Services, I think I fully grasp the situation.”

“Good, I’m glad I don’t have to explain it to you.”

“Am I going to get to shoot somebody again?” Joan had once shot a man in Stone’s office, who had been pointing a gun at him.

“If you’re lucky,” Stone said. “I know how much you enjoyed it last time.”

“I’m locked and loaded,” she replied, “even if I don’t fully grasp what that means.”

“You’re not alone. Please try not to shoot anybody, unless he or she exhibits murderous intention.”

“What would constitute an exhibition of ‘murderous intention’?” she asked.

“Pointing a weapon at you—or worse, at me.”

“Got it.”

“Oh, remember all the paperwork and questioning you had to deal with last time?”

“I do.”

“That’s a good reason for not firing unless you’re really convinced of murderous intention.”