Worst Fears Realized (12 page)

“I was thinking about this afternoon.”

“Can’t be done, I’m afraid. The demand has just been too great.”

Stone was annoyed. He’d rented an E430 in Los Angeles a few months before and loved it. He strolled toward the big V12 sedan. “How much?”

“A hundred and thirty-seven thousand, plus various taxes.”

Stone held up a hand. “Stop. Don’t tell me what the taxes are.”

“You’re very wise,” the man replied. “I can get you an S500, the V8 version of this one, almost immediately.”

“How long is ‘almost immediately’?”

“I’ve got one coming in in about two weeks.”

“You really know how to take the pleasure out of impulse buying,” Stone said.

“I’m sorry, but we’re dealing with a lot of demand and not enough cars.”

Stone looked out the side window of the showroom. A car-carrier truck had pulled up and unloaded something black. Now a double door had been opened, and four men were pushing a car onto the sales floor. “What is
that
?” he asked.

“Ah, now there’s something special,” the salesman said. “It’s called the E55; it’s an E430 that has been specially modified by AMG, the German tuning shop that does a lot of work on various Mercedes models. It’s in obsidian black with parchment-leather upholstery.”

The car was a lot like the E320 on display, but seemed lower and meaner-looking. “Just what, exactly, has AMG done to that car?”

The man went to his desk and removed a folder from a drawer. “This is very out of the ordinary,” he said, reading from the folder. “The car has a five-and-a-half-liter V8 that’s more powerful than the one in the S500, at three hundred fifty-four horsepower, and with the S500 transmission. The body is lowered, and the suspension has upgraded shock absorbers, antiroll bars, and springs. It’s got eighteen-inch wheels, Z-rated tires, and the brakes from the SL600.”

Stone sucked in a breath.

“The windows are tinted darkly enough to make the occupants unrecognizable, and, after it arrived in this country, we sent it to a specialist to be lightly armored.”

“What, exactly, does ‘lightly armored’ mean?”

The salesman opened a door, pressed a button, and a window rolled down halfway. “As you can see, the
glass is a lot thicker than standard—half an inch thick, in fact—and the roof, all the door panels, and the floorpan have been reinforced with lightweight, but very tough materials like Kevlar. The car will repel small-weapons fire, even heavy machine-gun fire, but it won’t, of course, stop a bazooka or a land mine. You’d need the fully armored version for that level of protection.”

Stone got into the car and looked around.

“You’ve got sport seats and special trim; there’s also a concealed radar scrambler on board,” he said, looking around to see that no one was listening. “It detects, then makes police radar useless; it’s legal in most states.”

“It’s very nice,” Stone said. “How much?”

“It doesn’t belong to us, actually,” the salesman replied. “It’s the property of the widow of a former client, a South American gentleman.”

“And why is she a widow?”

“The car was delivered a couple of days too late to serve the purpose the gentleman had intended.”

“You mean he was in another car when…”

“When he needed the extra protection that this car affords.”

“How much does the widow want for it?”

“Something in the region of…” He named a figure. “But I believe she is a highly motivated seller.”

“I see,” Stone said, feeling to be sure he had his checkbook with him.

“The car has only eighty-one miles on it, and it has every option ordinarily available on the S600,” the salesman said, “including the portable telephone and the separate rear-seat air-conditioning. Even with the extra weight of the options and the armoring, the car
will do zero to sixty in six seconds flat,” the salesman said, “and the top speed is no longer limited to the standard, electronically controlled one hundred thirty miles per hour.”

“What
is
the top speed?” Stone asked, trying to breathe deeply and slowly.

“Nobody knows,” the salesman replied.

“Ask the widow if she will accept an offer of…” Stone named a number. “And please tell her it will be my only offer.”

“Let me make a call,” the salesman said. He went to his desk and picked up the phone.

Stone walked around the car, looked in the trunk, then raised the hood. He gave a little gasp. The engine was the most beautiful mechanical object he had ever seen, ingeniously crammed into a car allegedly too small for it and beautifully polished wherever possible. He closed the hood and looked at the wheels. He reckoned they were two inches larger than standard; the rear wheels were wider than the front, and the tires were low profile.

The salesman returned. “The widow accepts your offer,” he said. A film of perspiration covered his face. “Will that be cash, or would you like to finance it?”

“It will be cash,” Stone said, pulling out his checkbook. “How soon can I drive it away?”

“The car’s already been prepped; you can be on your way in half an hour.”

“Can you get me a number for the car phone in that time?”

“You better believe it,” the salesman said, trying not to pant.

20

S
TONE DROVE MADDENINGLY SLOWLY
through the crosstown traffic, two detectives in a car behind him. Sarah was reading through the instruction book that came as a supplement to the owner’s manual.

“It says here that the electric, rear-seat sunscreen is made of a material that is designed to stop any incoming…” She stopped. “Incoming what?”

“Just incoming. It means bullets or shrapnel.”

“Any incoming that penetrates the rear glass.” She found the button under the armrest and watched as the fabric sunscreen went up and down. “Cute,” she said. “Does it have built-in machine guns like James Bond’s car?”

“Of course not. I shouldn’t have told you about the armor.”

“Oh, I’m very glad to hear about the armor,” she said. “Gives one a cozy warm feeling inside. Where are you taking me?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“How long a surprise?”

“Normally less than two hours, but I want to make a brief stop along the way.”

“A brief stop where?”

“Ossining, New York.”

“Yuck; sounds like an awful place.”

“Many of the people who reside there think so.”

“Why are we stopping there?”

“I want to ask a man some questions.” Stone pulled onto the West Side Highway and left the thick traffic behind. He put his foot down and felt himself pressed into his seat as the car accelerated.

“My goodness,” Sarah said.

“Yes, indeed.” Stone looked into the rearview mirror at the small dot that was the detectives’ car. He punched a programmed button on the car telephone.

“Krakauer,” a voice said.

“Thanks, Krakauer,” Stone said. “I’ll take it from here. You can tell Lieutenant Bacchetti that you got me out of town alive.”

“Right,” Krakauer replied. “Try not to come back.”

Stone punched off the call, flipped on the radar scrambler, and concentrated on driving and watching for cops. In what seemed like half the usual time they were on the Saw Mill River Parkway, headed north. He crossed the Hudson on the Tappan Zee Bridge and picked up the New York State Thruway.

“There’s a little wind noise around this window,” Sarah said. “I would have thought that at, what, seventy miles an hour we wouldn’t hear that.”

“We’re doing a hundred and ten,” Stone replied.

“Oh. Are we going to be arrested?”

“Probably not.” He spotted a state trooper going in the opposite direction and slowed down, watching the car make a U-turn across the meridian. By the time the trooper was up to speed, Stone was at sixty-five. He could see the man fiddling with something on his dashboard, looking confused. A moment later, the trooper made another U-turn and drove off to the south. “Zap,” Stone said aloud.

“What?” Sarah asked.

“I just zapped his radar.”

“I thought his radar was supposed to zap you.”

“That’s the way it used to be.”

A little later Stone pulled into the visitor parking lot at Sing Sing and approached the guardhouse.

“Can I help you?” the guard asked.

“I’d like to speak to Captain Warkowski.”

“Just a minute.” The guard picked up a phone, said something into it, then handed it to Stone. “He’s on the line.”

“Hello, Captain,” Stone said. “This is Stone Barrington; I was up here with Lieutenant Bacchetti.”

“How could I forget?” Warkowski replied. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to see Herbert Mitteldorfer again; just a few questions.”

“I’m afraid you’ve missed him.”

“Missed him? Is he in town, running errands?”

“Herbie got out yesterday.”

“I see.” This didn’t come as a complete surprise.
“Can I have his release address?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know his new address.”

“May I have the name of his parole officer, then?”

“He doesn’t have a parole officer.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“He got an unconditional release.”

“He was released
unconditionally
? From a sentence for murder? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“It’s rare, but it happens. Herbie was an outstanding prisoner, very helpful to the warden and me, and his psychiatric examination showed no likelihood of a repeat offense.”

“So you just cut him loose, and you’re hoping for the best?”

“That’s about it.”

“And you have no address for Mitteldorfer?”

“None at all; he’s as free as an eagle.”

“Thanks; sorry to trouble you.”

“No trouble at all,” Warkowski replied.

Stone could hear him laughing as he hung up. He returned to the car.

“Business all done?”

“Almost,” Stone said. He drove away from the prison and into the town, looking for something. It didn’t take him long to find it, and he drove into a parking place.

“I’ve got to run in here for a minute,” Stone said.

“Stone, darling, do you really feel an urgent need for stationery right
now
?”

“I won’t be a minute.” He got out and went into the store; the sign over the door read,
WILHELM’S STATIONERS.
A young woman was behind a counter near
the door. “Good afternoon,” Stone said. “I wonder if I could speak to Mr. Wilhelm?”

“I’m afraid he’s out for a couple of hours, delivering,” the young woman said.

“Oh.” Stone turned to go, then stopped. “Did a man named Herbert Mitteldorfer used to buy supplies here for the prison?”

“Herbie? Oh, yes. He was one of our better customers. He and Mr. Wilhelm used to speak German to each other.”

“How often was he in here?” Stone asked.

“Oh, practically every single day, even when there was a lockdown at the prison.”

“He bought office supplies
every day
?”

“Oh, no, not really. At first, he’d come in to see Mr. Wilhelm, then he started working here.”

“He worked for Mr. Wilhelm?”

“Well, not
for
Mr. Wilhelm; Mr. Wilhelm rented him office space. He had a computer and everything.”

Stone blinked as he tried to get his mind around this. “Did you know he was released yesterday?”

“Oh, yes. Herbie came by to get his stuff and to say goodbye.”

“Did he have a lot of stuff?”

“A couple of filing cabinets and his computer and printer; that was about all.”

“Do you think I could have a look at where Herbie worked?”

“Are you a friend of his?”

“I came up to see him today, but I didn’t know he’d been released until I got to the prison.”

“Sure, I guess you could see it; follow me.”

Stone followed the young woman through aisles of stationery and office equipment to a door on the other side of the store.

She opened the door and stood back. “This is where he worked,” she said.

Stone looked into a room furnished only with a desk, a chair, and a small leather sofa. “Do you have any idea what Herbie did in here?” he asked.

“Well, I know he traded stocks,” she replied. “I don’t know what else he did.”

Stone stared at her. “On the stock market, you mean?”

“Oh, yes; he was a very active trader; he spent every afternoon on the computer and on the telephone, talking to his broker. He gave me and Mr. Wilhelm a number of good tips; we made out real well. I was sorry to see Herbie go.”

“Thanks,” Stone said.

“Come see us again. Shall I tell Mr. Wilhelm you stopped in?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. By the way, do you have Herbie’s new address?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t; neither does Mr. Wilhelm. He did say that he was headed west.”

“How far west?”

“I don’t know, really; he did say that he’d let us know when he was settled.”

“I see. Tell me, how did Herbie take his computer and his file cabinets away?”

“He had a man with a van; I guess somebody he hired.”

“Was there a name on the van?”

“Nope, just a plain, black van.”

“Can you describe the man who drove the van?”

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t pay that much attention; I was helping customers.”

“Thanks again for your help,” Stone said. He walked back to his car, wondering why the hell Sing Sing would let a prisoner spend his afternoons in Ossining, trading stocks.

“All done?” Sarah asked, as he got into the car.

“Completely done,” Stone replied. He had no idea what to do next.

21

T
HEY CROSSED INTO CONNECTICUT ON
I-84, and Stone soon turned off the interstate at Southbury and headed north. The car behaved like a living thing, clinging to curves and accelerating in the straights.

“When do I get to know where we’re going?” Sarah asked.

“When we get there, not before,” Stone replied. “Just enjoy the countryside; it restores your corpuscles, remember?”

“I can feel them pumping even now.”

In Woodbury, Stone turned left on Highway 47, and a few minutes later they entered Washington Township.