Class Act Page 3

  “Well, you look fresh and almost new,” she said, kissing him carefully, to avoid a nose bump.

  “Never better,” Jack said.

  They were driven to Teterboro and thence to Jet Aviation, where a Citation CJ3 awaited them, one owned by the office supply company now owned by Hillary, and one of two available for their use. Minutes later, they were climbing through clouds, then, finally, in clear blue skies. Jack dozed off.

  An hour later, Jack awoke when he felt the landing gear come down and five minutes after that they coasted to a stop at Columbia Aviation at Bar Harbor Airport, where they and their luggage were loaded into a Range Rover and driven to the charming village of Northeast Harbor, where they occupied a charming house overlooking the charming harbor. Jack settled into an armchair with a view and allowed the New York Times to be placed in his hands. He was brought a cup of tea, then Hillary settled into a chair opposite him and opened the island newspaper.

  “Was there anything in the New York papers about my, ah, mishap?” he asked.

  “Nothing that could identify you,” she replied. “You know, the Post said something like, ‘Man mugged on Lex, assailant sought.’ ”

  “No photographs?”

  “Oh, some tourist got a snap of you being loaded into the ambulance, then shopped it to the Post. You were unidentifiable.”

  “Has anyone been sniffing around our building?”

  “Nothing the deskman couldn’t handle.”

  “I expect O’Brien will be asking.”

  “Let him ask.”

  * * *

  —

  Mickey O’Brien flashed his gold badge at the doorman and entered the building without being stopped. He got only as far as the desk, where he flashed it again.

  “Hello, O’Brien,” the deskman said. “Don’t they make you turn in your badge when you retire?”

  “Usually,” O’Brien said, “but not detectives. I need to see Jack Coulter.”

  “Mister Coulter is not at home.”

  “Yeah, I know what that means.”

  “He left the city this morning.”

  “For where?”

  “His summer home.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “Now, that’s not a question you expect to have answered, is it?”

  “I expect to have all my questions answered.”

  “Dream on, Mickey. We all know what you did, and if you walk in here again, I’ll have Internal Affairs on your back, and you know how they cling.”

  “Fuck you,” O’Brien said, but left. He crossed Fifth Avenue, and found a bench against the Central Park wall with a view of the building. Now, where would a gent of Coulter’s station have a summer house? Hamptons? Nah, too flash. Cape Cod? Maybe that or the Vineyard or Nantucket. He needed to narrow the range. As he thought about it, a blue Bentley with Florida plates turned the corner and entered the building’s garage.

  Florida plates? Jack had a place in Palm Beach, didn’t he? He trotted across the street and into the garage. The Bentley was parked near the entrance, and Mickey checked the plate. It was in a dealer’s frame with a West Palm address, and he jotted down the license number, then trotted back to his bench and got out his phone. He got himself connected to the West Palm Beach police and gave them another detective’s name, at the 19th Precinct.

  “What can we do for you, Chief?” the cop asked.

  “I need a little info on a man named Jack Coulter, lives part time in P.B., drives a Bentley from the local dealer.” He spelled Coulter for the man.

  “Okay, let’s see. What d’ya know? Man had a couple parking tickets on Worth Avenue.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Local address at a big hotel called the Breakers.”

  “Any other address?”

  “One on Fifth Avenue, New York City, one in Northeast Harbor, Maine, on Harborside Road. That’s it.”

  “That’s all I need,” O’Brien said and hung up. Maine! Why didn’t he think of that? He went to the maps on his iPhone and looked up the address. Harborside Road was fairly short, and there was an airport less than ten miles away: Bar Harbor Airport.

  He called a travel agent. He could get to Northeast Harbor by flying to Boston and changing for Bar Harbor, where he could rent a car. He looked at his watch: a little late in the day. He made a reservation for tomorrow, then started looking for a bar where he wouldn’t stand out too much.

  * * *

  —

  Late in the evening, Mickey got out of a cab into pouring rain and ran for the door to his basement apartment. He stuck in his key, but it wouldn’t turn in any direction. Befuddled, he searched his brain for some reason. Then he remembered what his mother had screamed at him before he left the house. The locksmith had done his work and replaced the old lock with one set to unlock on a timer.

  He checked his wristwatch for the time, but couldn’t see it. The bulb under the main staircase had burned out. He walked around trying to find a ray of light to reveal his watch, then Nature obliged with a quick bolt of lightning. Eleven-forty, it read, so he was required to shelter under the stairs for another twenty minutes before his key would work.

  It didn’t work then, either, but finally, after another three minutes the key opened the door. He left his sodden clothing in a pile by the front door and got into a hot shower, to warm his bones. That accomplished, he set up a clothesline in the kitchen and hung his clothes there to drip dry, then got into a bed that eventually became warm.

  6

  Mickey O’Brien got himself slowly together the next morning, then wrote his mother a note and stuck it on the door.

  Mom, I’ve got to go out of town on business today, but I should be back by around six p.m. Book us a dinner table somewhere you love, and it’s on me! The day holds promise!

  Your loving son,

  Michael

  * * *

  —

  Jack Coulter was awakened by a warm hand on his thigh, which moved further.

  “Is this working yet?” Hillary asked.

  Somewhat to his surprise, it was, and the two enjoyed a romp in the hay that was up to pre-blackjack standards.

  * * *

  —

  After a little tidy-up of the bed, Hillary rang, and a few minutes later the housekeeper, Mae, pushed in a cart loaded with breakfast and served them in bed.

  “Any thoughts on what to do today?” Hillary asked.

  “I don’t know, how about a cruise up the sound, aboard Maine Belle?” Jack replied. “The weather is glorious.”

  “Oh, yes; we’ll have lunch. I’ll ring up the captain and give him his instructions. Twelve o’clock? That will give the cook time to shop.”

  “Perfect.”

  Jack got himself into his yacht club Brenton Reef red trousers, a white shirt, and a club necktie, then donned a blue blazer and threw a sweater around his shoulders, in case the wind got up.

  Hillary installed a fresh bandage and a nose guard.

  * * *

  —

  Mickey made his early-morning flight to Boston in a rush, then sat in the airport there for hours, waiting for them to do something to the puddle jumper that was the only way to Bar Harbor. He read the papers and thought about the ponies but didn’t do anything about them, then formulated a plan for his eventual arrival.

  Upon landing, he went to the rental car booth in the tiny terminal and asked for something small. All they had was a Chevy Suburban, a domestic tank, but they gave him a lower rate. They gave him a map, too, which included an inset of Northeast Harbor.

  He crossed an almost unnoticeable bridge to Mount Desert Island, and made his way to Northeast Harbor. His approach was right down Harborside Road, where there were a couple of dozen houses but no way to identify Jack Coulter’s. Then he spotted a green Range Rover pulling out of a dri
veway ahead of him and thought, What the hell, how many of those could there be around at this time of year? Labor Day had been a couple of weeks ago, and the village was deserted.

  Mickey hung back from the Range Rover, which was driven by a woman with a man at her side. He followed them down to the harbor marina, where they parked and walked down the dock to a handsome motor yacht from the twenties or thirties, Mickey thought. The man was big enough to be John Fratelli. He saw them walk up the gangplank, then, a moment later, two crew cast off, and the yacht moved gracefully down the harbor. He noted the name on her stern, Maine Belle.

  Mickey looked around for a boat to rent or steal but saw nothing. Most of the berths were empty. He noticed a chart posted on a bulletin board and tried to guess where the yacht might go. As he looked up, she was leaving the harbor and turning right. A light breeze had come up, and his guess was that she would stay in sheltered waters. He liked the look of a body of water called Somes Sound and thought that looked perfect for a day cruise. He got into the car and switched on the GPS navigator as he drove up to the main street. Then he saw a shop with a sign in the window: sporting goods, fishing and hunting gear. He parked and got out. All he had on him was his 9mm handgun; he needed more range.

  Mickey walked into the shop and had a look around. There was a rack of used rifles at the rear, and he headed there.

  “Something I can do for you?” an elderly man behind the counter said.

  “Oh, maybe something light, with a scope. Something good for varmits.” He looked over the weapons in the rack and found a .30-caliber military carbine, probably of World War II vintage.

  “That’s a great old weapon,” the shopkeeper said.

  “Will it take a scope?”

  “Sure it will. And I can install it. Mind you, the scope costs more than the rifle. I can mount it in half an hour,” he added.

  “How about a silencer?” Mickey asked.

  “Sure, those are legal these days. I can do the threads for that, too.”

  They haggled a bit, then agreed on a price. “If you’ll throw in a box of ammo,” Mickey said. “I’ll take a walk while you work.”

  “Turn over that sign on the door so it reads closed,” the man said. “That’ll make things go faster.”

  Mickey did so, then stepped into the street.

  A row of shops and galleries ran down the street, some of them with empty windows. He found an open restaurant called the Colonel and had a sandwich, then he walked back to the sporting goods shop.

  The proprietor was screwing in the silencer. “Pretty neat, huh?”

  “Pretty neat,” Mickey replied. “Got a canvas case for it?”

  The man produced one. Mickey inspected the rifle, then slipped it into the case. He paid the man in cash, from his emergency stash, for when a great long shot came along, and left the shop. He tucked the rifle into the front passenger seat and followed his GPS map to a road called Sargeant Drive, which ran up the eastern side of Somes Sound. He pulled over about halfway up the sound, next to a boulder and a cutback pine tree, then got out. He looked up and down the sound and saw nothing, not so much as a sailing dinghy. He was expressing disgust with his guess of the yacht’s routing when it hove into sight from behind a boulder, perhaps half a mile away.

  Mickey went to the Suburban, got out the rifle case, unzipped it, and shook out the weapon. He popped the magazine and began loading the cartridges. There was an extra magazine, but he reckoned he wouldn’t need that. The boat was chugging up the sound at, maybe, six or seven knots. He walked to the boulder by the pine tree and settled the rifle into a notch along the top. He noted that the wind was shifting to the east and freshening, and its skipper cheated it into the shore, where the wind was lighter.

  Mickey began to sight in on his target.

  7

  Mickey trained his sights on the spot where the skipper would drive the boat. He could see the man through the windshield, talking to a young woman. He swung his aim to the right and drew a bead on a lobster pot buoy, then squeezed off a round. He was pleased with how quiet the rifle was with the silencer, and he saw the bullet splash a foot ahead of the buoy.

  The wind came up a bit more, and Mickey adjusted his sights: he hit the pot squarely, and at that moment, the helmsman cut back the power and slowed the boat. He said something to the woman, and she began moving aft. He hoped they hadn’t seen the hit on the buoy.

  Now he could see the couple, who were sitting all the way aft, on a sofa that curved around the stern, making for an easy pick-off. Then the woman came onto the afterdeck, holding blankets in her arms. The man waved her off, then escorted his wife off the afterdeck and into the main cabin. They had gotten chilly, it seemed. Shit.

  Now his shot was harder to make. The sun reflected off the glass windows of the main cabin, distorting the images of whoever was inside. He could see movement, but he couldn’t be sure which person was Fratelli or his wife or a crew member. Then, for just a moment, the sun’s angle changed, and he had a clear view of the man.

  He resighted, moving the crosshairs to the center of the man’s chest, then the sight picture went blank. He lifted his head from the stock of the rifle and looked at the yacht. The crew woman had pulled down a shade in the cabin, and she pulled down another as he watched. He had no picture and no shot.

  Mickey looked up and down the sound wondering where they would turn back for the trip down the sound. Wherever it was, he figured, he would have no shot. Oh, well. He removed the magazine and racked the slide, ejecting the round in the chamber, then he looked at his watch. It was one o’clock, and that was the time his flight left. He heard a noise and saw the puddle jumper clear the mountain across the sound, then turn to the south. It was the only flight for the rest of the day. How could he have gotten it so wrong?

  He got into the car and pulled out his cell phone, got a signal, and did a search for aircraft charters. He found a flight school at Bar Harbor Airport that also advertised charters. He called the number and got the manager on the line.

  “What can I do you for?” a man with a Mainer accent said.

  “Have you got something to charter that can fly me to Teterboro, New Jersey?”

  “When?”

  “Right away.”

  “Just a minute.” There were paper-shuffling noises. “I’ve got a Baron.”

  “What’s a Baron?”

  “A twin-engine Beechcraft, an excellent airplane. I’d suggest flying to Caldwell, New Jersey, about ten miles west of Teterboro. Nice little airport there and our route would keep us out of all the corporate stuff landing and taking off at Teterboro.”

  “How long a flight?”

  “About two, two and a half hours. It’s quite a comfortable airplane. How many people?”

  “Just me.”

  “Any luggage?”

  “Just a rifle case.”

  “As long as I hold on to the ammo.” He offered a price, they haggled, then made the deal.

  “I’ll be there in about fifteen, twenty minutes,” Mickey said. “I have to turn in my rental car at the terminal.”

  “I’ll taxi around and wait for you there. My tail number is November 123 Tango Foxtrot.”

  “See you then.” Mickey started the car and turned it around. He saw the motor yacht making its turn, too, heading back down the sound. He had been right; he wouldn’t have had a shot. He drove back to the airport, handed in the car, then walked out to the ramp, where a twin had just shut down its engines. The tail number was the right one.

  He walked out, shook the pilot’s hand, and, at his invitation, stowed the rifle in the forward luggage compartment, and the ammo with it.

  The pilot did a brief walk-around, then Mickey hopped into the rear compartment and made himself comfortable. Ten minutes later, they were lifting off.

  * * *

  —

  The
winds were favorable at their altitude, and they made it in a little more than two hours. The pilot had called ahead for a car and driver.

  It was after five, and in rush-hour traffic, the drive to Brooklyn took almost as long as the flight from Maine. He called his mother.

  “Where are you, Mickey? Are you going to make dinner?”

  “I’m in a car, on the way home. What time is our table?”

  “Eight o’clock, at Peter Luger.”

  The best steak house in the city, and one of the most expensive. Dinner was going to be upwards of two hundred dollars.

  “Great! Love the place. I need to change clothes. Unlock the door, will you?”

  “Already done.”

  “See you at seven-forty-five, out front.” He hung up. “You want to drive us to dinner?” he asked the driver.

  “Sure, but I’ll have to drop you. I’ve got another booking at eight-thirty.”

  “Done.” Mickey settled back in the seat and explored his options. There weren’t many.

  8

  Stone was wrapping up his day when Joan buzzed. “Will you accept a call from the president of the United States?” she asked.

  “Oh, all right.”

  “I knew you’d be excited.”

  There was a click. “Stone?” Holly said brightly.

  “One and the same. Where are you?”

  “In New York, as it happens. Dinner tonight? I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more notice, but I was locked into the UN all day.”

  “You mean dine out in public, like in a restaurant?”