Dirty Work Page 5

  Ten minutes later, the kid was holding up a strip of film to the light. “There are only four frames exposed,” he said.

  “Stop looking at them and make the prints,” Dino said.

  Ten more minutes and they had the prints.

  “Can I drop you?” Stone said, giving the cabbie Elena Marks’s address.

  “You betcha,” Dino replied. “Gimme my prints.”

  Stone gave Dino a set, put a set in his raincoat pocket, along with the negatives, and looked at the third set.

  “What a fucking mess,” Dino said. “You couldn’t nail anybody in a divorce with these. In this one, he’s lying on his belly. In these three, he’s got his arm over his face, and in all of them her head blocks his crotch. For all we can see, she might have been giving him a legit massage. Where’d this kid learn his photography, in juvenile hall?”

  Stone looked at the fourth photograph. The woman was looking up at the skylight. It was the only shot that showed part of her face. She had long, dark hair and, from what he could see, was attractive. “Not bad,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Dino agreed. “What you can see, anyway.”

  The cab stopped on Dino’s corner, and he got out.

  “What are you going to do with the photographs?” Stone asked through the window.

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Don’t give them to the Feds.”

  “I never give anything to the Feds without a court order and a gun at my head,” Dino replied, walking away.

  11

  The cab took Stone to 1111 Fifth Avenue, near the Metropolitan Museum. Bill Eggers was waiting for him.

  “Thank God you’re on time,” he said. “Now listen, when we get upstairs, I’ll do the talking. You just keep your mouth shut and nod a lot.”

  “Whatever you say,” Stone said, grateful that he would not have to explain the events of the night before.

  The elevator opened directly into the foyer of Elena Marks’s apartment. The foyer, Stone noted, was nearly as large as his bedroom. The floors were marble, and the walls were hung with good art. A flower arrangement the size of a big-screen TV rested on a Louis Quinze table. A man in a white jacket entered the foyer.

  “Mr. Eggers? Mr. Barrington? Please follow me.” He led them through a living room the size of a basketball court and into a library with a double-height ceiling. A spiral staircase in a corner led to the upper level. Every book in sight was leather-bound and matched several other books. Elena Marks was nowhere to be seen.

  “Please have a seat,” the butler said. “Mrs. Fortescue will be with you shortly. May I get you some refreshment?”

  “No, thank you,” Eggers replied.

  Stone wanted a beer; the cheeseburger still hadn’t gone all the way down. “First time I ever heard her referred to as Mrs. Fortescue,” he said.

  “Well, she’s a widow now, isn’t she?” Eggers replied.

  A section of the bookcases along one wall suddenly opened, and Elena Marks Fortescue entered the room. The bookcase/door closed silently behind her. She was a razor-thin woman with bright, blond hair, wearing a bright yellow, flowered dress, the sort of thing that would have been perfectly acceptable for a recent widow in, say, Palm Beach, Stone thought.

  “Good afternoon, Elena,” Eggers said smoothly. “Thank you for seeing us.”

  “Bill,” she said, nodding. Then she turned a withering gaze on Stone. “Mr. Barrington,” she said through clenched, beautifully capped teeth.

  Stone tried smiling, but it didn’t work. “Good afternoon, Ms. Mar . . . ah, Mrs. Fortescue.”

  She held her gaze a little longer, as if to punish him, before looking away.

  Stone felt as if a hole had been burned through him.

  “Sit,” Elena said. “Speak,” she said to Eggers. She appeared to be barely in control of her anger, but addressing them as dogs seemed to help.

  “Elena,” Eggers said plaintively, “please let me express my condolences, along with those of everyone at Woodman and Weld.”

  “Accepted,” Elena said, her face like marble.

  Stone realized that she had had so many Botox injections that she was probably incapable of any expression, short of baring her teeth.

  “What happened,” she said to Eggers, a command rather than a question.

  “A terrible accident,” Eggers replied. “Our investigation has determined that the skylight above the apartment had been fatally weakened by dry rot.”

  What investigation? Stone wondered. Nobody had asked him anything.

  “And when Stone’s operative put a little of his weight on it, in order to be able to photograph the scene below, it gave way.”

  “Who do we sue?” Elena asked.

  That brought Eggers up short. “Ah, well, I, ah . . . Stone? You want to answer that one?”

  Stone, who had thought he was to keep his mouth shut, wasn’t ready for the question. “Not really,” he said, tossing the ball back to Eggers.

  “Do you mean to tell me,” Elena said, “that the people who are responsible for my husband’s death should go unpunished?”

  Stone found his voice. “Mrs. Fortescue,” he said, “if I may be candid, you hired a man, through Bill and me, to climb onto the roof of a building and photograph your husband in compromising positions. The attorneys for the owner of the building would work hard to make a case that you, therefore, are responsible for your husband’s death, and they might very well win with such a defense. Even if you won, the resulting publicity would be devastating to your reputation.”

  “Then perhaps I should sue you for hiring an incompetent,” Elena said.

  Eggers made a small choking noise.

  “That would have the same result,” Stone said. “At the moment, the story the press has is that a burglar or Peeping Tom fell through the skylight. It is being reported as nothing more than a freak accident, which, of course, it was. There has been no mention of the woman or the motives of the man who fell. To pursue this further would not result to the benefit of anyone involved.”

  Elena attempted to frown and failed. “What about your Peeping Tom? It seems to me that he might have a lawsuit against you, and eventually, me.”

  “You may rest assured that that will not happen,” Eggers said.

  Stone hoped he was right. The idea of Herbie Fisher suing had not occurred to him, and he hoped to God it hadn’t occurred to Herbie.

  “But I’m the injured party here,” Elena cried, banging her bony fist against the arm of the sofa. "Somebody has to pay for that injury!”

  Eggers turned white and said nothing.

  “Mrs. Fortescue,” Stone said, “may I be perfectly frank?”

  “You’d fucking well better be,” Elena snarled. Her marble skin had turned bright pink.

  “These events, as unfortunate for everyone as they are, have inadvertently accomplished something that could not have been foreseen.”

  “And what is that?” Elena demanded.

  “It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good,” Stone said, hoping that the cliché would find its mark.

  It did not. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Elena cried, turning pinker.

  “An act of God, for want of a better term, has rid you of a husband who was unfaithful to you, and whom you had already decided to be rid of, and it has done so in a way that avoids the inevitable, damaging publicity of divorcing him and enforcing your prenuptial agreement.” Stone paused for effect. “Not to mention the very considerable expense of so doing.”

  There was a long silence, finally broken by Elena Marks Fortescue. “You have a point,” she said. Then she got up and left the room the way she had entered it.

  Eggers had been holding his breath, and he let it out in a rush.

  Back on the street, looking for a cab, Eggers turned to Stone. “What about the photographs?” he asked.

  Stone handed him a set, and Eggers looked at them briefly.

  “And the negatives?” he asked.

&n
bsp; Stone handed over an envelope containing the four frames. “You think we’re out of the woods with Elena?” he asked.

  “She didn’t fire us, did she?” Eggers said cheerfully, waving down a cab and getting in. “Let’s do lunch sometime.” He drove away.

  12

  Stone felt lighter than air. This was all going to work out; everything had been taken care of. All he had to do now was to get something worked out with the DA’s office about Herbie’s charges—get them to drop the manslaughter charge, plead him down to a misdemeanor, and get him probation. It was a bright, cool day, and he felt like a walk.

  He strolled down the west side of Fifth Avenue, occasionally glancing into the park, then farther downtown, turned left on East Fifty-seventh Street and walked to the Turnbull & Asser shop. He would treat himself.

  He looked at the new sea island cotton swatches and ordered a dozen shirts. He didn’t know what they cost; he didn’t want to know. Joan would pay the bill when it arrived, and he had instructed her not to enlighten him; some things were best left unknown. He picked out a few ties and waited while they were wrapped; the shirts would take eight weeks, or so. Then he left the shop and turned down Park Avenue toward home in Turtle Bay.

  In the upper Forties, as he turned to cross Park, a stretched Bentley glided to a momentary halt, then drove on, but not before Stone had seen, through the open rear window, Elena Marks, now clad in proper New York widow’s weeds by Chanel, in earnest conversation with someone Stone knew. He pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed Woodman & Weld and Bill Eggers.

  “What is it, Stone?” Eggers asked, sounding rushed. It was a technique of his when he didn’t want to talk to somebody.

  “Bill, I was crossing Park Avenue a moment ago, when I saw Elena Marks in her car with Robert Teller, of Teller and Sparks.”

  “What?” Eggers cried.

  “I kid you not.”

  “That buccaneer! That bastard! Poaching my clients!”

  “I thought you’d want to know.”

  “What were they talking about?”

  “Well, Bill, I couldn’t hear them. I just saw them in that big Bentley of hers, talking.”

  “Well, I’ve already got our tax people working on something that might save her a few hundred grand. It’s the kind of thing she likes.”

  “I’d tell her about it soon, Bill. Bye-bye.” Stone punched off. He thought about calling T&A and canceling his shirt order, but he thought better of it.

  Stone arrived home and went upstairs to leave his new ties, before returning to his office. As he approached his bedroom, he heard a snore. He pushed open the door and peered inside. Carpenter lay on her back, a breast exposed, sawing lightly away. He tiptoed across the room toward his dressing room, left the ties and tiptoed back into the bedroom. He was greeted by a wide-awake Carpenter, sitting up in bed, clutching a sheet to her bosom with one hand while using the other to point a small, semiautomatic pistol at him.

  “You caught me hanging up neckties,” he said, raising his hands in surrender.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, seeming confused.

  “I live here,” Stone explained. He pointed at the bed. “I sleep there. Is that my Walther you’re pointing at me?”

  “No, it’s mine. My firm has issued them to everybody since the first James Bond novel.”

  “And why are you still pointing it at me?”

  She lowered her hand. “Sorry,” she said, dropping the sheet, to good effect, and running her fingers through her hair. “I didn’t get any sleep last night.”

  “I remember,” he said. “I was all curled up in bed, waiting anxiously for you. When I woke up, you were gone.”

  “Business,” she said.

  Stone sat down on the bed, removed the pistol from her hand, and set it on the night table. “Something to do with Herbie Fisher’s big night?” he asked.

  “Why do you ask?” she said warily.

  “Well, as soon as I told you what happened, you were on the phone in the next room, and that’s the last thing I remember.”

  “There was something I was supposed to ask you,” she said, scratching her head.

  “You don’t seem quite awake yet.”

  “It’s jet lag, I think.”

  “Why don’t you go back to sleep. I’ll wake you at dinnertime.” He pushed her gently back onto the bed, pecked her lightly on each nipple, pulled the covers up, and tucked her in.

  “Mmmmm, thank you,” she murmured, closing her eyes. She seemed instantly asleep.

  Stone left her there and closed the door behind him. He was about to start downstairs when the bedroom door was flung open, and a very naked Carpenter stood there.

  “The photographs!” she cried, pointing at Stone.

  “What?”

  “The photographs that Herbie Fisher took. Where are they?”

  Stone walked her back into the bedroom and sat her on the bed. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Business,” she said. “Sort of.”

  “Those were some of your people who turned up at the flat after Herbie took his dive,” Stone said.

  “Maybe,” she said warily.

  “What were they doing there?”

  “Stone, I need those photographs.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re important to something I’m working on.”

  “I don’t understand,” Stone said. “How could some bedroom divorce photographs be important to MI Five, or whatever number it is you work for?”

  “I can’t talk about that,” she said.

  “All right, then, I’ll trade you.”

  “What do you mean, trade me? Isn’t that a baseball term?”

  “I’ll trade the photographs for some information.”

  “What information?”

  “I want to know how Larry Fortescue died.”

  “Your rabbit-brained photographer fell on him,” Carpenter replied.

  “Nah, that’s not what killed him; Herbie fell on Larry’s legs. He was already dead, wasn’t he?”

  “How would I know that?” she asked, looking out the window.

  “Because somebody—somebody you’re very likely associated with—arrived at the morgue this morning with a federal court order and took the corpse away.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Okay,” Stone said, standing up, “no photographs for you.”

  “Wait!”

  Stone stopped.

  “You can never tell anyone I told you this.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Fortescue died from the application of some sort of poison to the base of his spine. We haven’t figured out yet what it is.”

  “I’m going to need a letter to the DA from a credible authority, stating that Fortescue was already dead when Herbie tried to fly.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she said. It may take a few days.”

  “As few as possible, please.” Stone reached into his pocket and handed her the four photographs.

  Carpenter looked at the first one, of Fortescue lying on his back, the woman hovering over him. “Oh, Lawrence,” she murmured.

  “Huh?” Stone said.

  She looked at the other three photographs, then her mouth dropped open. “Jesus!” she said. She got up, found her handbag, took out a cell phone and dialed a number.

  “It’s Carpenter,” she said into the phone. “I’ve got a photograph of her.” She looked at the bedside clock. “Half an hour,” she said, and punched off.

  “What’s going on?” Stone asked.

  “Get out of here. I’ve got to get dressed,” she said, rummaging through the closet for clothes.

  “Are you going to be free for dinner?” he asked.

  “I’ll call you when I know,” she replied, then she went into the bathroom and shut the door, taking the photographs with her.

  He opened the door a little. “It’s not even that good a photograph,” he called out.

 
“It’s the only one in existence,” she called back.

  13

  Stone stayed at home the early part of the evening, waiting for Carpenter to call, until hunger got the better of him. What the hell, she had his cell phone number, so why wait?

  He arrived at Elaine’s only moments before she would have given away his table. It was a very busy night, and even regulars were waiting at the bar. They shot him evil glances as he sat down.

  Elaine came over. “You know how much I could have gotten for your table?” she asked, nodding at the bar.

  “Let them eat . . . cake,” Stone replied. “You’ll overcharge them anyway.”

  “You could get a fork in the chest, talking like that,” she replied equably.

  “I just want one in my hand, and something to eat.” He grabbed a waiter and ordered a spinach salad and osso buco. “Tell Barry I want it with polenta instead of pasta,” he said. “And I need a Wild Turkey on the rocks, and bad.”

  “Tough day?” Elaine asked.

  “I had to face Elena Marks today,” he replied.

  “You mean, explain how you killed her husband?”

  “I didn’t kill her husband, and neither did the guy I sent. You been talking to Dino?”

  “I’ll never tell.”

  “Just between you and me and the nearest gossip columnist in this joint, Larry had already bought it when the kid took his dive.”

  “The cops don’t seem to know that.”

  “They will soon,” Stone said. “I’ve seen to it.”

  “So where’s Felicity, the English doll?”

  “Working. I was hoping she’d make it to dinner.”

  “What does she do?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  “If I did, she’d have to kill me, and believe me, she would.”

  “I don’t think she would enjoy it,” Elaine observed.

  “Maybe not, but she’d do it just the same. She’s already pointed a gun at me once today.”

  “I didn’t know you were that bad in the sack.”

  Stone’s cell phone vibrated. “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” Carpenter said.