Standup Guy (16 page)

Stone got downstairs to his office at the usual time, and there was a pink memo slip on his desk: call Dan Sparks. Stone called. Out of the office, leave a message. He did. A week had passed since he had been up to Connecticut, and he hadn’t seen Hank, which was okay with him. He was oddly disturbed that she had been sleeping with her captor. What was that? Stockholm syndrome?

He called Dino. “Morning.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“You heard anything from Dan Sparks?”

“I had a message on my desk when I got in. He was out when I called back.”

“Me, too. You think his people picked up Buono?”

“I’d be real surprised if Bats was still in Connecticut. You see him on the news?”

“I saw a report.”

“I ran him against the database, and he had no arrest record,” Dino said.

“I would have thought he did,” Stone said. “I mean, the guy’s a career criminal, and he’s, what, forty? How’d he avoid arrest for so long?”

“He must be real careful. You know, it’s funny, his uncle Eduardo never got busted, either, until his pals gave him up after his big heist.”

“Maybe caution runs in the family. He’s got a father named Gino, lives in Queens. Run him, will you?”

“Hang on.” There was the sound of computer keys clicking.

“Nada,” Dino said. “He’s clean.”

“That’s puzzling. You think it means anything?”

“Means what? I can’t think of anything. Either they were all three extremely smart and careful, or they all got very lucky.”

“That’s too lucky,” Dino said. “Hang on, Dan Sparks is returning my call. I’ll tie you in, if I can remember how to work this phone.”

There was a click. “Dan?”

“Yeah, Dino.”

“I’ve got Stone on the line, too. Save you a call.”

“Thanks, I need to talk to the two of you.”

“Shoot.”

“My crime-scene team went through the house on the lake, and they found traces of blood in the kitchen drain.”

“I don’t think Hank was hurt,” Stone said.

“Well, it’s not a mystery. We found a body about fifteen yards into the trees.”

“What kind of a body?” Dino asked.

“White male, five-eight, maybe, a hundred and forty, maybe, sporty clothes.”

“Did you take prints?” Stone asked.

“Yeah, we can scan and run ’em pretty much instantly these days. No hit on our computers or the national.”

“What about dental?”

“That’ll be tough,” Sparks said. “The guy has no head.”

It got real quiet for a few seconds.

“Cause of death?” Dino asked.

“Multiple knife wounds in his back. A knife in the kitchen matches the wounds—that’s one possibility. An ax was leaning against a woodshed at the side of the house—that’s another.”

“Any sign of the car?” Stone asked.

“Sign, yeah. There were tracks running into the lake.”

“Could you see anything in the water?”

“Nah, lake’s about thirty feet deep there. We’ve got divers on the way. They can probably float it.”

“How do they do that?” Stone asked.

“They’ll take big bladders down there, put ’em in the car and inflate ’em from compressed-air bottles. That should pop it right up, and we can tow it to shore. You fellas thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Probably,” Dino said.

“Maybe,” Stone chipped in.

“My guess, the lady didn’t take kindly to being kidnapped, so she took the first opportunity.”

“She didn’t want to drive away in the car,” Dino said. “She knew he drove stolen cars from his chop shop.”

“Nice point,” Sparks said.

“If I were a lawyer,” Stone said, “oh, that’s right, I am—I could make a case for self-defense in court.”

“I would buy that,” Sparks said, “if the guy still had a head.”

“Kidnapping rage?” Stone suggested.

Both Sparks and Dino laughed heartily.

“You got an APB out on her?” Dino asked, when he had recovered himself.

“Yeah, but we’re playing that tune softly: we’re seeking her for information about a possible crime.”

“That’s polite,” Dino said.

“We thought so. I’d like to hear her story, before we paint her as an ax-wielding, backstabbing homicidal maniac.”

“Very restrained,” Dino said. “Stone? You still there?”

“I’m thinking,” Stone said.

“Good idea,” Dino replied.

“Was there a cell phone in the house?”

“No,” Dan said, “but there was one in the corpse’s pocket.”

“Who did it belong to?”

Short silence. “Good question. I’ll have to check.”

“I’d really like to know.”

“Hang on.” He put them on hold.

“This doesn’t sound good,” Dino said.

“Tell me about it.”

“Maybe my guys should talk to Hank before Dan’s do.”

“It couldn’t hurt.”

Dan came back on the line. “I was wrong,” he said. “There were two cell phones—one his, one hers.”

“So she wasn’t able to call for help,” Stone said. He wanted to make that point.

“Well,” Dan said, “I can see how a lot of things could happen in a situation like hers. A lot of people would panic in the
circumstances, and rage can be a product of panic. My money’s on you in court, Stone.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“She’s going to need a lot better lawyer than Stone,” Dino said.

“From what I’m hearing, she could do a lot worse,” Dan replied.

“Thank you for that vote of confidence,” Stone said.

“I’m just saying a jury might be very sympathetic to her plight.”

“But not to her skill with tools,” Dino said. “And there’s the cleanup to consider, and the fact that she didn’t confide in Stone.” He paused. “Did she, Stone?”

“She did not.”

“You want a couple of hours to feel her out?” Dino asked.

“That won’t be much fun.”

“Not as much fun as feeling her up, I’ll grant you.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass, Dino.”

“I don’t have to send out the detectives just yet.”

“I’ll get back to you,” Stone said, and he hung up.

Stone thought about it for a few minutes before he made the call. He tried the office number and asked for Hank.

Another woman came on the line. “Who’s calling?”

“Stone Barrington. I’m a friend of Hank’s.”

“She called in sick some time back. I haven’t heard from her, and her cell phone went straight to voice mail.”

“I see. Thanks for your help.” He hung up and called Hank’s home number. It rang four times, then went to voice mail. “It’s Stone. We need to talk right away, before you talk to anybody else.” He left his office number, though he knew she had it.

Half an hour later, Hank called back. “Hi, I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch.”

“Are you ill?”

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m just a little shaken up, and I’m not thinking very clearly.”

“Are you at home?”

“Yes. I was in the shower when you called earlier. I just saw the flashing light on the phone. Can we get together? I need to talk with you.”

“Then you’d better talk to me now, because soon you’ll be talking to the police, and it won’t be fun.”

“I don’t mind talking to them, I’m the victim, remember? Not a perp, to put it in yours and Dino’s graceful and expressive language.”

“You’d better be prepared to convince the police of that, or not talk to them at all.”

“Are you giving me legal advice?”

“I will, if you like, on the basis of a client-attorney relationship.”

“Should I hire you?”

“You should hire somebody. Do you know any very good attorneys?”

“I don’t know any attorneys at all, except for you.”

“I think it would be a good idea for you to be represented by someone else, in the circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

“An attorney who might be more sympathetic to your plight.”

“What plight? What are you talking about, Stone?”

“All right, let me ask you one question—as an attorney.”

“Okay.”

“Where’s the head?”

“The head of what?”

“The head of Bats Buono.”

“As far as I know, he’s self-employed.”

He thought she seemed perfectly calm, maybe a little exasperated with him.

“I’m talking about the head that used to rest on his shoulders.”

“You’re saying that Onofrio has lost his head? Metaphorically?”

“Not metaphorically—actually.”

“Stone, you’re not making any sense.”

If this is a performance,
he thought,
it’s a good one
.

“Are you sitting down?”

“No, should I be?”

“Yes. The Connecticut State Police sent a crime-scene team to the lake cottage. They found traces of blood in the kitchen sink.”

“And what conclusion did they draw from that?”

“That somebody did some bleeding.”

“I didn’t, I’m wound-free.”

“Did Bats cut himself shaving?”

“Not that I noticed. What aren’t you telling me, Stone?”

“They searched the property and found a corpse in the woods.”

She gave a little gasp. “Onofrio’s?”

“It was carrying his wallet and two cell phones, yours and his.”

“He took it away from me. He’s actually dead?”

“Yes, and his head is missing.”

“Oh, shit!”

“Well, yes. His car was missing, too, and there were tire tracks leading into the lake. A dive team is on the way there now to raise it.”

“And you’re saying the police think I had something to do with his death?”

“They’re considering it. Is there anything you want to tell me?”

“Look, he was alive when he drove away from the house. That was the last I saw of him, and he hasn’t called.”

“Well, he wouldn’t, would he?”

“Now that you mention it, I guess not. Am I really a suspect?”

“I think they would probably describe you as ‘a person of interest’ in the case, but that’s only one bad answer from ‘defendant,’ so when they come calling, tell them the truth.”

“I am telling the truth. I always tell the truth.”

“They’re going to ask you about the protection order you took out against Buono.”

“Now, look, Stone . . .”

“Stop right there. Consider your answer.”

She was quiet for a moment. “All right,” she said finally, “I almost took out the order, but I didn’t actually do it.”

“Then why did you lie about it? Don’t you know there are court records of protection orders?”

“I was on the point of doing it, but he suddenly stopped calling, so I waited for a couple of days, and when he didn’t call again, I didn’t take out the order.”

“All right, I’ll accept that answer.”

“That’s very good of you,” she said, and there was acid in her voice. “You checked up on me, did you? Or Dino?”

“Yes. Do you blame me?”

“I apologize for lying to you.”

“Thank you. The good news is, the cops, generally speaking, don’t know about your lie. The bad news is, Dino does.”

“And he would rat me out about that?”

“I don’t know. At least you haven’t lied directly to a cop, only to me. Keep it that way.”

“All right. Any other advice?”

“Do you want me to find a lawyer for you?”

“I thought you would represent me.”

“That is not in your best interests, given our personal history, however short. I say again, I think you need to be represented by another attorney.”

“Do I really need a lawyer right now?”

“That’s my best advice.”

“But then he’ll tell me not to answer any police questions, won’t he?”

“Very possibly.”

“And if I don’t, that will make me look guilty, won’t it?”

“It’s a conundrum. The advantage lies in not having any lies on the record. If you want to answer their questions, he’ll be in the room, to keep you out of trouble.”

“All right, recommend somebody.”

“His name is Herbert Fisher. He’s with my firm, Woodman & Weld. He’s young, smart, and shrewd.”

“All right, Herbert Fisher.”

“He’s called Herb.” He gave her the number.

“I’ll call him.”

“Do that.”

They both hung up. Stone was still confused, but there was enough in her answers to keep him believing that she had not killed Buono.

Jack Coulter was in the Breakers’ gym, working out, as he had done every day in prison, except he did not now use weights to achieve bulk. He glanced at the mirrored wall and was pleased to see himself as a well-built, fit forty-year-old. He had had his suits altered twice to adapt to his decreasing weight.

His cell phone rang on the stool beside him, and he picked it up. “Yes?”

“Who is this?” A male voice, deep, raspy.

Jack hung up and waited. The phone rang again. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry, this is Will Crowder. Are you expecting my call?”

“Yes.”

“Manny Millman said—”

“Stop. Report.”

“Yes, sir. The subject, Harry M. Moss, is a sixty-one-year-old white male, five-nine, one-sixty, in apparently good health. He
retired from the FBI at fifty-nine and lives on his pension, plus benefits from an inheritance.”

“What benefits?”

“His mother married twice. Her first husband, Martin Moss, was a carpet salesman for a big furniture store in New York. He died of a heart attack at fifty-four. Her second husband, William Hood, was the owner of the big furniture store. Not long after their marriage, he retired at the age of sixty-nine and sold the business. They moved to Delray Beach, Florida, to a beachfront condominium in a building constructed in the 1920s. He proceeded to gamble away much of his capital, and he shot himself at the age of seventy-two, on the beach in front of their building late at night. Mrs. Hood continued to live in the apartment until her death, three years ago, in much-reduced circumstances. She left her son, Harry, the apartment and enough in a trust to pay the maintenance, taxes, and fees on the apartment, but not much else.

“There was some considerable feeling in local law enforcement that Mrs. Hood murdered her husband, her motive being to conserve what was left in his estate before he threw it all away. The theory of the case is that the two of them went for a walk on the beach after midnight, and that she took along a .32 caliber revolver belonging to her husband that he kept in a bedside drawer, that she shot him in the right temple, knowing that he was right-handed, wiped the gun, put his fingerprints on it, and left it in the sand next to his body. She returned to her apartment via a service elevator, which was very little used at night, then went to bed and waited for someone to come to the door and inform her of her husband’s suicide. She was awakened by the police around eight
AM
the following morning, roused from a sound
sleep, she maintained, after the discovery of Mr. Hood’s body by a maintenance worker who had come to rake the beach.

“Repeated interrogations failed to shake her story—that she had gone to bed at her usual hour of eleven, and that her husband must have taken a late walk after that time, then, depressed by his financial woes, taken his own life. The case was closed after a coroner’s inquest ruled Hood’s death a suicide.

“Moss lives entirely on his pension, as he had saved little, and he is not yet old enough to collect Social Security. He has listed the apartment with a local firm, naming a price of three million nine hundred and fifty thousand. He probably hopes to realize three and a half million. It has been on the market for fifteen months with two offers of less than two mil. He blames local market conditions following the recession. He drives a two-year-old Toyota Camry Hybrid and frequents the five-dollar window at Hialeah racetrack, wins some, loses some.

“Contact with a close acquaintance says that he does little with his time other than hang out at a local coffee shop and the public library in the daytime and a local bar in the evenings, watching sports on TV and trying to pick up women, almost always unsuccessfully. His attitude toward life is one of being thwarted—especially by his stepfather’s gambling habit. He feels that, if not for that, he would be a wealthy man today, driving an expensive car, dressing well, and having sex with beautiful women.

“His defining characteristic is that he is always looking for a windfall that will restore him to that position, but he seems unlikely ever to achieve that.

“That concludes my report. Do you have any questions?”

“No.” Jack hung up.

• • •

Will Crowder stared at the phone in his hand as if to rebuke it. He had no idea whom he had been talking to and no idea why. He called Manny Millman.

“Yes?”

“It’s Will Crowder. I’ve made my report. Your friend seemed satisfied.”

“Good. Your debt is canceled. I’ll have your three grand for you this afternoon at the track. Come see me.” He hung up.