Fresh Disasters

The man with the silenced semiautomatic pistol put one extra shot into the head of each cop, then he moved quietly to the door to the bedroom. He put his ear to the door and listened: The TV was playing, sounded like a soap opera. He pushed the door open and stepped into the room, the gun held out before him. Nobody in sight. Then he heard the shower ru

He walked quickly to the bathroom door, which was ajar, allowing steam from the shower to escape. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. There was so much fog, it was difficult to see, but after a moment, he made out the shower curtain. He reached over with his left hand and snatched it open, ready to fire. Nobody. He checked behind the door. Still nobody. Where was the kid?

Herbie hadn’t wanted his guards to see him dressed, so when he heard the cop yell, he ducked into the bedroom closet and watched as the man with the gun went into the bathroom. He didn’t hesitate but ran into the living room, looking for the cops, who were both on the floor with holes in their heads. Once again, Herbie didn’t hesitate. He went into the pockets of the cop lying by the door and found a roll of bills, then took the cop’s gun and ran like a deer down the hallway to the fire stairs, then ran all eleven floors to the lobby. There was a cab waiting in front of the hotel, and he dived into it.

“Just drive,” he said to the driver.

“That don’t do it, pal,” the driver replied. “Where you want to go?”

“Brooklyn. I’ll give you directions.”

Stone had left his office for the day and was in the basement exercise room, ru

“Stone Barrington.”

“It’s Dierdre.”

Dierdre was horny, that was it. Okay, he had a couple of hours before he had to meet Dino at Elaine’s. “Well, hi there,” he said, panting from his exertion.

“Did I interrupt you in bed?”

“No, I was on the treadmill. You want to come over?”

“I’m not in the mood right now.”

Stone was disappointed. “Whatever you say.”

“That’s not why I called.”

“What’s up?”

“Gus Castiglione got shivved at Rikers today; he’s dead.”

“Oh, no, there goes most of your case. I mean, Herbie can testify to the kidnapping and the murder threat, but it was Gus who could really have put Dattila away, wasn’t it?”

“That isn’t all the news,” Dierdre said. “The two cops who were guarding Herbie at the hotel are both dead, small-caliber handgun, two each.”

“Oh, shit,” Stone said, dreading what might come next.

“One of the cops’ guns and the expense money in his pocket are missing.”

“And Herbie?”

“Herbie’s missing, too.”

51

Stone sat at Elaine’s, staring into his bourbon.

Dino sat down. “All right, what fresh disaster has visited you now?”

“A cascade of them,” Stone said. “First of all, Gus Castiglione got shivved at Rikers while on his way to the dining hall. You probably heard about that.”

“No. Although the NYPD’s grasp of technology is improving, I don’t yet get a daily e-mail about who got shivved at Rikers on his way to the dining hall. What else?”

“The two cops guarding Herbie at a hotel got capped, and Herbie’s missing.”

“All right, let’s start with Gus. I thought the D.A. had him on ice. What’s he doing going to the dining hall?”

“Nobody knows. He was supposed to eat in his cell, but the door was unlocked with all the rest, and he started for the dining hall.”

“That means Dattila has somebody inside who could work that.”

“Right.”

“With regard to Herbie, I thought he was in a safe hotel.”

“So did everybody else.”

“That means Dattila has somebody in the D.A.’s office, too. Jesus, New York law enforcement is turning into a sieve. You think Herbie’s dead?”

“Probably not. Why would they kidnap him again? Who would spend ten minutes with him who didn’t have to? Dattila’s already on tape saying he wants Herbie dead, so the hit man was obviously sent there to shoot him. Also, some expense money was missing from one of the cops’ pockets, and his gun was gone, too. That doesn’t sound like a pro.”

“So Herbie’s on the loose with some cash, and he’s armed. Has Bob Cantor heard from him?”

“Nope.”

“And Herbie hasn’t called you, either?”

“Nope. I don’t know if he even got out of the hotel with his cell phone. We had an arrangement where he’d call in every day. I hope he sticks to it.”

“Herbie has more lives than any three cats I know,” Dino said.

“Yeah. Gus’s death is a big blow, though. I thought Dierdre would send Dattila up for life, and that would bolster Herbie’s civil suit. Even if Herbie lives to testify, he can only nail Dattila for kidnapping and attempted murder.”

“Dattila’s what, fifty? He might get enough time to keep him in the rest of his life.”

“I’m not counting on it, and if he gets Herbie, he won’t do any time at all. Any news on Devlin Daltry?”

“I’ve got six people on it, including a knockout blonde detective who’s six-feet-one.”

“That’s encouraging, and I need encouraging.”

“I’m expecting to hear more tonight,” Dino said.

Detective Willa Bernstein parked her Camaro Z80 across from the Art Scene Gallery. Detective Shelly Pointer, who was in the passenger seat, leaned forward and looked into the gallery. “You think Daltry is in there?”

“A magazine interview I dug up on the Internet said that he loves other artists’ openings, and he goes to all the big ones. This one-a painter named Jason Griggs-is tonight’s big one. Why don’t we go and find out?”

“Okay.”

“Don’t go in together,” a voice in Willa’s ear said.

“Thanks, we figured that out,” she replied. All five detectives could hear her and talk to her on the new equipment. “Shelly’s going in first to case; I’ll wait to hear from her.” She nodded at Shelly, who got out of the car, crossed the street and went into the gallery.

Willa took deep breaths to calm herself. Two minutes later, Shelly spoke into her ear. “Bingo,” she said.

“On my way.” Willa got out of the car and crossed the street. She could see her partner’s car ahead of her, and she knew the other car was behind. She walked into the gallery, stopped and looked around. She didn’t see Daltry, so she walked to the bar, where a lot of glasses of wine were arrayed, and picked up some white. Then she saw Daltry, standing in a group near a huge painting. She sidled over and stood, staring at the big oil, but nothing happened. From the corner of her eye she could see Daltry still talking with the group.

Willa walked around the knot of people gathered around Daltry and stopped before the next painting, careful not to look at him. She took a sip of the wine and winced.

“Was that expression for the wine or the painting?” a voice asked.

She turned a little to her right and found Daltry at her elbow; he came up to about her collarbone. “Both,” she said. “The painting is not so hot, and the wine is even worse.”

“Jason has never deserved his reputation, and the wine, well, my guess is it’s made in a basement somewhere in Queens.”

Willa laughed. “The painting could have been made there, too.”

This time Daltry laughed. “Have you seen the rest of the show?”

“No, I just got here.”

“Let’s take a quick walk through,” Daltry said. “By the way, I’m Devlin Daltry. Who are you?”

“I’m Willa Bernstein. Are you the sculptor?”

“Yes.”

“I saw your show at the Modern last year.” She hadn’t, but she’d found that on the Internet, too. “I thought it was brilliant.”

“Thank you. I wish you were an art critic.” He walked her slowly around the room, not stopping.

“Well, that’s that,” Willa said. “No reason to spend another minute here.”