Hit List (Stone Barrington #53)(60)
“Is the food decent?”
“I recommend the ale.”
“There’s a side entrance from inside the office building.”
“Then we’ll meet there. Come armed.”
“Don’t worry.”
“Stone?”
“Jah?”
“First of all, stop it with the ‘jah’ business.”
“Okay.”
“Second, if you had taken my advice when Ed Eagle got shot, Larkin would think you were dead, and you wouldn’t be putting yourself in jeopardy like this.”
“Oh, swell, rub it in!” Stone hung up.
* * *
—
Herbie was at his desk when the phone rang. “Herb Fisher.”
“Mr. Fisher, this is Egil Krogar.”
Herbie blanked.
“About Frances Bowers’s will?”
“Oh, sorry, Mr. Krogar. I was thinking about someone else.”
“Someone named Krogar? As far as I know, I’m the only person in the United States with that name.”
“No, someone called Emil.”
“That’s not my name.”
“I know.”
“I’ve completed your form. Where should I send it?”
Herbie looked at his watch: a quarter to twelve.
“Mr. Krogar, I’m just on my way to an out-of-office meeting. Could we meet at, say, twelve-thirty? I’ll buy you lunch.”
“Well, I guess so. That’s very generous of you.”
“We’ll both be hungry by then, and we’ll need a few minutes to run through the form together.”
“Where shall we meet?” Krogar asked.
“There’s a place called the Yard of Ale, on East Fifty-third Street.”
“That won’t work,” Krogar said.
“You don’t like sausage and ale?”
“It’s not that. I tried to go there yesterday, and it’s being painted.”
Herbie thought fast. “First day open,” he said. “I just made a reservation. They promise it doesn’t smell like paint, just sausage and ale. And it’s in the building where my appointment is.”
“All right, I’ll see you at twelve-thirty.”
“I’ll be at a table at the rear of the restaurant, where it’s quieter.”
“Fine.” Krogar hung up.
Herbie called Stone.
“Yes, Herb?”
“He’s on for twelve-thirty. He says his name is Egil Krogar.” He spelled the name. “I’ll see you there.”
“Don’t you come anywhere near the place,” Stone said.
“I told him I had a meeting in the building. He’ll be watching for me.”
“All right, go into the building, and take the elevator upstairs.”
“Where upstairs?”
“Anywhere upstairs. Just get out of the lobby.”
“I’ll have to show myself at twelve-thirty, or he won’t show himself.”
“Jesus, Herb, how do you get yourself into these things?”
“By following your instructions. I’ll see you at noon in the lobby entrance. You can figure out what to do with me then.”
“Okay, jah.”
“What?”
“That’s Norwegian for twelve o’clock.” Stone hung up.
48
Stone phoned for Fred and got into the car. “Yard of Ale, on East Fifty-third Street,” he said.
“I’m afraid it’s closed—being painted,” Fred replied. “How about P.J. Clarke’s?”
“Fred, I have inside information. The Yard of Ale is no longer being painted, and I have a reservation.”
“If you say so, sir.”
“Fred, drive.”
Fred drove and made it in no time. “Lose yourself nearby, until I call,” Stone said, then got out of the car. He was greeted by a large sign that read: CLOSED FOR REPAINTING. “Oh, shit,” Stone said, checking his watch: eleven fifty-five. He ran into the building through the office entrance. Dino was standing next to the door to the restaurant, and he had a man in a suit backed up against the wall next to the door. Dino had turned a bright red color.
“I can’t,” the manager was saying.
“You want to be fired?” Dino yelled. “I can speak to the owner.”
“I’m the owner.”
“All right,” Dino said, making a visible effort to control himself. “We . . .”
“May I speak, please?” Stone asked, flashing his badge.
“Yes, please,” the man said. “Who is this person?”
“This person is Dino Bacchetti, the police commissioner for the City of New York.”
“You mean he wasn’t lying about that?”
“He just looks like he’s lying. Has he explained the situation?”
“Sort of. He wants the painters out and the restaurant up and running.”
“No, he just wants it to look like it’s running for a few minutes, until we can capture the most wanted man in the city.”
“Just get the painters out,” Dino said through clenched teeth.