Dirt

“Yeah, I know this guy,” the doorman said, holding up one of the photographs. “He’s spent a lot of time with the lady in Nine-A, Miss Carter.”

“That’s Nine-A?” Martinez asked.

“Yeah. Pretty lady, Miss Carter.”

“You think he might be up there right now?”

The doorman hadn’t seen any money yet, so he played the detective along. “Could be,” he said.

“Thanks,” Martinez said, turning away.

“Hey, what about my twenty?”

Martinez stopped, produced a twenty, but snatched it back when the doorman grabbed for it. “You don’t say nothing to nobody about this, right? I was never here.”

“Right,” the doorman said, “you were never here.” This time he was allowed to grab the twenty.

Martinez hoofed it around the corner and found a pay phone.

“Yeah?” a voice said.

“This is Ernie Martinez. You know those two guys you’re looking for?”

“Yeah.”

“I just might have them for you.”

“Yeah? Where?”

“You’ll tell the big guy that Ernie Martinez phoned it in?”

“Yeah, sure, Ernie.”

“Ten-eleven Fifth Avenue, Apartment Nine-A. Doorman says they might be up there right now.”

“Thanks, Ernie; we’ll be in touch.”

“I’ll have to phone this in, but I’ll wait an hour, okay?”

“Yeah, that’s good, Ernie.”

“Don’t forget to tell him.”

But the man had already hung up.

Martinez found a coffee shop on Madison and settled himself on a stool with his paper, a cup of coffee, and a doughnut.

It was dark now, and Arrington hadn’t returned. Stone was getting worried. He found her diary with the name of her appointment at the magazine, and he called the editor.

“This is Stone Barrington; I’m a friend of Arrington Carter. I believe she had an appointment with you this morning.”

“That’s right,” the woman said. “We had lunch after that.”

“What time did she leave you?”

“Sometime after three. She said she was going to Bloomingdale’s.”

“Thanks very much,” Stone said, then hung up. He looked at his watch. Bloomingdale’s had been closed for forty-five minutes. She had said she was going to her old apartment, hadn’t she? He dialed the number, but only got her answering machine. He heard the beep. “Hello, Arrington? Are you there? If you’re there, pick up.” He waited a moment, but she didn’t answer. “If you get this message, call me at home.” He hung up. He’d wait a few minutes, then call again.

Richard Hickock rode up in the freight elevator, and when he emerged onto the empty factory floor it was dark. A moment later, half a dozen low-wattage bulbs came on, and Enrico Bianchi stepped from behind a column.

“You’re late, Dick,” Bianchi said. “I’ve been waiting over an hour.” He did not sound happy.

“I’m sorry, Ricky, we were stuck in the Midtown Tu

Bianchi ran a hand over his hair. “I don’t like to wait, Dick.”

“I apologize, Ricky; there was nothing I could do.”

Bianchi did not seem mollified. “So what’s the big emergency?”

“I want to call off the search for those two men,” Hickock said. “Something has happened, and it would be very bad for me if anything happened to them.”

“Dick, what is this on-again, off-again thing? You should know I don’t do business that way. What has happened?”

“They’re blackmailing me, that’s what. They’ve threatened to turn me in to the IRS and to send incriminating information to the media.”

“How much do they want?”

“Three million dollars. I’ve already wire-transferred the money.”

Bianchi looked astonished. “Dick, you shouldn’t have done that; you should have come to me and let me handle it.”

“I only had until close of business, Ricky, and they said that they had left the documents with other parties, and if anything happened to them it would be sent out. That’s why you have to call off the search; I can’t afford for anything to happen to them now.”

“Dick, don’t you know that’s what all blackmailers say? That they’ve left the pictures or the documents or whatever with a lawyer who has instructions if anything happens to them? They never do it; they never believe anything will happen to them. I think it would be best if we just leave things as they are. I’ve already had a tip that they might be in an East Side apartment. Someone is on the way there now.”

“Ricky, you’ve got to stop them; I can’t afford to find out the hard way if they’re lying. I’d rather pay them the money.”

“Then they’ll want more, Dick, don’t you know that? If you’re willing to pay them three million dollars on the basis of an unsubstantiated threat, they’ll bleed you again and again for years to come, until there’s nothing left. You just let me handle these two guys.”

“I can’t do that, Ricky. You’ve got to call off your men.”

Bianchi shrugged. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Dick; it’s too late. You’ll just have to take your chances.”

Hickock slumped. “I hope to God you’re right about their bluff.”

“Trust me, I’m right. Is there anything else?”

“There is one more thing; the third name I gave you.”

“I remember.” He patted his pocket. “It’s right here. You want me to push the button?”

Hickock took a deep breath. “Push the button. I don’t care whether it looks like an accident, just do it.”

“It will be done,” Bianchi said. “But this is going to cost more money. This search has turned into an expensive operation.”

“Of course,” Hickock said. “Anything you want, just name the amount.”

Bianchi smiled for the first time that day. “That’s the way I like to hear you talk,” he said.

Stone phoned again, got the answering machine again. He had the awful feeling that something was very wrong. He’d go over there; maybe the doorman would let him in. Then he remembered. He found her handbag in the bedroom, opened it, and shook the contents out onto the bed. There was the key. He put it in his pocket, got a coat, and left the house.

Chapter 57

Allan Peebles had worked a long day. It was only midafternoon in L.A., but it seemed later to him. He was tired, and his editorial meeting was nearly over. He had only a story or two to clear, and he could close the paper for the week and go home. Then, through the glass wall of the boardroom, he saw a strange sight. A man named Harold Purvis, who was head of security for the Infiltrator’s building, was striding through the newsroom, followed by two uniformed security guards. Purvis walked up to the boardroom door, rapped sharply, and opened the door.

“Mr. Peebles, I must see you immediately,” he said. “Just as soon as you close the paper. It’s very urgent.”

“I’ll be with you in just a couple of minutes, Harold,” Peebles said, wondering if another lunatic had gotten into the building. He ran through the remaining stories, gave his approval, and wound up the meeting, then he walked down the corridor to his corner office. Harold Purvis and his two men were in the room, as was his secretary. “What’s up, Harold? More crazies with alien abduction stories?” This was a regular feature of life at the Infiltrator.

Purvis walked behind him, closed the door, and took an envelope from his inside pocket. “I have been instructed to read you a letter,” he said, “which will explain everything.”

“All right,” Peebles replied, wondering what the hell was going on.

Purvis held up the letter and read aloud. “‘Dear Mr. Peebles,’” he began. “‘You are herewith and with immediate effect dismissed from your position as editor and publisher of the Infiltrator.’”

Peebles blinked. He had not seen this coming.

“‘You are to vacate your office and depart the premises at once. Your secretary will send along any personal effects in your office.’”