Hit List (Stone Barrington #53)(9)

Vanessa climbed aboard again. “Where were we?”

“Why don’t we work on that in an actual bed,” Stone replied. He picked her up and headed for the elevator.



* * *



—

The following morning, when Stone turned on the TV, the media were all over the killing. NBC had a shot from the top of 30 Rock that zoomed in from thirty stories up, framing the corpse surrounded by white coats and blue uniforms, then zooming slowly in. Finally, they showed the remains being loaded on a gurney and then crossing the street to an underground elevator, the press figured it out in time to be hot on the heels of the wagon as it drove away.

They cut to an anchorwoman: “The police have made no statement yet, but our sources tell us that the victim was number nine on the hit list that’s been in the news. If so, her name is Trisha Marshall, and she’s a researcher at the New Yorker magazine. She’s forty-nine, divorced with two college-age children, and a regular at the Rockefeller Center skating rink.”

Stone switched channels and got more of the same. “My kingdom for some political reportage,” Stone said aloud.

Vanessa stirred. “What?”

“Nothing on TV except last night’s killing at 30 Rock,” Stone said.

“What time is it?”

“Breakfast time. What’s your pleasure?”

“French toast, bacon, OJ, and coffee,” she muttered, then turned over and went back to sleep.

Stone phoned the order to Helene in the kitchen, then retrieved the Times from outside his bedroom door, where it appeared, magically, each morning. The Times had placed the story, discretely, at the bottom of page one, where lived the one-sentence headlines of the stories continued inside. Stone went straight for the crossword.



* * *



—

Breakfast arrived in the dumbwaiter; Stone set the tray on the bed and poked at Vanessa’s ass with a finger.

“Huh?”

“French toast,” Stone replied. “Better eat it now, while it’s hot. And you can pass up that punch line.”





8


Stone had packed Vanessa off home and was at his desk, when Lance phoned and scrambled.

“Good morning,” Stone said.

“And to you. Dino got the two ballistics reports to us overnight, and both victims were killed with the same weapon.”

“That’s to be expected,” Stone said. “Question is: What is the origin of the weapon?”

“I know what you’re thinking, and I considered it myself for a while, but it is not from our armory, nor is it a personal weapon registered with us by an employee, which is a firm requirement.”

“Any other thoughts?” Stone asked.

“Somebody else’s armory,” Lance said.

“What about somebody’s workshop?” Stone queried.

“That’s a possibility, if he had good tools. He wouldn’t have to make the guns; he could buy those. But the silencers? That would make sense.”

“So, anybody with a basement, a standing drill, threading tools, and a selection of hard bits could have made the silencers?”

“A wide net, isn’t it.”

“Something to look for if he’s captured by other means,” Stone said.

“Search warrants are Dino’s métier, not mine. So, for that matter, is murder. Why am I involved? I forget.”

“Because one of your ex-people came to my house with a tool kit and did some damage.”

“Ex-people. I like that, like ex-wives and ex-dogs. A divorced colleague of mine used to refer to his kids as his ex-children.”

“He sounds heartless enough to be one of yours,” Stone commented.

“The most softhearted man you could imagine,” Lance replied.

“Who, in your shop, could have had access to the plans of my house?” Stone asked.

“Interesting question. The answer is: anybody with a computer and a password, or the ability to figure one out. Did you know that the most popular password among computer users is 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8? The second most popular is password. Or maybe it’s the other way around.”

“I’m not going to tell you what mine is,” Stone said.

“You’d be easy. Something to do with your airplane, I’ll bet.”

“Stop guessing,” Stone said, making a mental note to himself to change all of his passwords.

“You know,” Lance said, “you should come out of retirement as a homicide detective and work full time on this problem. After all, you’re on the hit list yourself.”

“I seem to be doing that without even trying,” Stone said. His desk phone buzzed; he picked it up and Joan said, “Dino on one.”

“Gotta run,” Stone said to Lance. Then he hung up his cell phone and pressed line one on his desk phone. “I’m here,” he said.

“Have you talked to Lance yet this morning?”

“Yes, just. He told me both people were killed with the same weapon, and it wasn’t one of the Agency’s.”

“You want to come down here and work on this? I’ll find you a desk.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve had enough bad coffee and stale donuts to last me a lifetime. I’ll lend you my brain, such as it is, from time to time.”