“That’s the one.”
“Did you land at Teterboro?”
“Yes, that’s it!”
“When you got out of the airplane you were at an FBO. Do you remember its name?”
“You mean, like a terminal?”
“Like that, but for private aircraft.”
“What are some FBOs?”
“Jet Aviation, Meridian Aviation, Atlantic Aviation, Furst Avia …”
“Atlantic, that’s it!”
“Is that where he always lands?”
“I guess so.”
“Is there anything else you haven’t told me about how Max travels?”
“I don’t think so.”
“How’s your rehearsal going?”
“We’re just reading through the script right now. Gotta run!” She hung up.
Stone got on his computer and went to the FAA aircraft registry, then typed in “Max Long” in the search engine. Nothing. Must be owned by a corporation. Stone called Cantor.
“Cantor.”
“It’s Stone. Carrie forgot to mention that Max Long owns an airplane, a King Air.”
“I thought he was broke.”
“Me, too. He usually lands at Teterboro, at Atlantic Aviation.”
“Got a tail number?”
“That would be too easy.”
“I’m on it.” Cantor hung up.
Stone was left, tapping his foot. Twenty minutes later, Cantor called back.
“I’m here.”
“He landed at ten fifteen last night. Teterboro Limousine took him to the Lowell Hotel, on East Sixty-Third Street.”
“You may need more than the Leahys,” Stone said.
“What, for a guy with a knife?”
“There’s nothing to stop him from carrying a gun on a private airplane.”
“Oh. Okay, I’ll get up to the Lowell now, see what I can see. I don’t think we’ll need more people. I’ll let the Leahys know that he may be packing, but I think the two of them can handle him.”
“If you say so,” Stone said.
HALF AN
hour later, Bob Cantor walked into the Lowell, a small, elegant Upper East Side hotel, carrying a box from a florist’s shop. He approached the front desk. “Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning,” the desk clerk replied. “May I help you?”
“Do you have a Max Long registered here?” Cantor asked.
The man consulted his computer. “Yes, we do.” He reached out for the box. “He’s out just now; I’ll take the flowers.”
“Just tell Mr. Long that Stone Barrington says, ‘Hi,’ ” Cantor said. He turned and walked out of the hotel, dumped the empty box in the trash can on the corner, and called Stone.
“Hello?”
“It’s Cantor. Long is registered at the Lowell but on the loose.”
“Swell.”
11
BOB CANTOR DROVE HIS VAN
down to the theater district, parked fifty yards from the Del Wood Theater, and turned down the sun visor with the NYPD badge on it, so as not to be bothered. He sat there through the morning, lunching on a sandwich he had packed before leaving his apartment downtown. In his pocket he had the protection order Stone had obtained over the weekend from a friendly judge.
He opened a book of
New York Times
crossword puzzles and began his routine: read a definition, then look outside while thinking of the answer. This was not his first stakeout. He had finished two of the puzzles, occasionally peeing into a bag designed for use on small airplanes, and was working on a third puzzle when he saw the tall man approaching the theater from the direction of Eighth Avenue. He popped open his cell phone and pressed a speed-dial button without taking his eyes off the man.
“It’s Willie,” one of the Leahys said.
“It’s Cantor. Guy coming toward the theater, answers the description. He’s wearing a raincoat, hands in his pockets, so watch out.”
“I’m on it,” Willie said, then hung up.
Cantor hopped out of the van and pressed the lock button on his remote key. He had a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of electronic equipment in the van, and he was taking no chances. He had to wait for a procession of cars to pass before crossing the street, and he made it to the alley down which lay the stage door just as the man did.
“Mr. Long?” he said. “Is that you?”
The man turned and looked at him. “Do I know you?”
“I’ve got something for you,” Cantor said, handing him the envelope.
The man stared at it but did not take his hands out of his raincoat pockets.
With his left hand, leaving his right in his own coat pocket, Cantor tucked the envelope into the top of the man’s raincoat. “You’ve been served,” he said.
“Served with what?”
“A protection order from the Supreme Court of New York State,” Cantor said. “It orders you to remain at least a hundred yards away from Ms. Carrie Cox at all times, and you’re violating it at this very moment.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Long said, ripping open the envelope and looking at the document.
“I’m afraid it’s very serious,” Cantor said. “As you can see at the bottom, the penalty for violating the order is thirty days in jail and a thousand-dollar fine. Oh, and did I mention that New York State has a very effective antistalking law? You could get a lot more time by violating that.” Cantor reached up and took the taller man’s arm, high under the armpit, and gently steered him down the street toward Broadway. “There will be people watching you every moment you’re in New York or Atlanta,” he said, “so don’t give Stone Barrington an opportunity to put you in jail.”
Cantor had not lied about Long’s being watched, because as he held his arm, he had attached a tiny bug to the armpit of Long’s raincoat that emitted a radio signal. Cantor stopped walking. “Bye-bye,” he said. “Enjoy your stay in our city.” He turned and walked back toward the theater, then stopped at the entrance to the alley and looked back. Long was moving quickly toward Broadway.
Cantor ducked into the alley and went to the stage door. When he opened it Willie Leahy was standing there. “I served him the order,” Cantor said, “and warned him off. I got a bug on him, too, so we’ll know if he’s within five hundred yards.” He handed Willie a small, black object that looked like a pager. “If this beeps, he’s around. A distance in yards will appear on the display.”
“Gotcha,” Willie said, looking at the thing. “He’s two fifty and moving away.”
“Okay,” Cantor said. “You don’t need me anymore, so I’m outta here.”
“Thanks, Bob,” Willie was saying as Cantor closed the stage door.
Cantor went back to his van and called Stone.
“HELLO?”
“I caught up with our friend Max outside the theater. I served him, gave him a little talk about the antistalking law, and attached a bug to his raincoat at the armpit, where he’s unlikely to notice it. Willie Leahy has a pager thing that gives him a distance on Max if he’s within five hundred yards.”
“Good day’s work, Bob.”
“I mentioned your name, since you apparently want him pissed off at you.”
“Better me than Carrie,” Stone said. “Let’s hope he makes a move, so Dino can fall on him from a great height.”
“Yeah,” Cantor said. “I’d feel a lot better with him in jail. Oh, I also left him a message from you at the front desk of his hotel. He’s gonna feel surrounded by you.”
Stone laughed. “I like it.”
“Listen, you watch your ass,” Cantor said. “It wouldn’t do to underestimate his guy. I did a background check, and in his youth he was a marine. Those guys don’t lack confidence.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Stone said. “Thanks, Bob.” He hung up and called Carrie’s cell phone, got voice mail, and left her a message.
She called back an hour later. “What?” she said.
“Max is in town. Bob Cantor served him with the protection order. He’s now wearing an electronic bug that will let the Leahys know if he’s near.”
“Wow, how did you do that?”
“It’s the sort of thing, among many other things, that Bob Cantor does.”
“Why don’t you come over to my place tonight, and we’ll order in some Chinese?”
“Sounds good. You’re sure you’re not going to be too tired?”
“No. I’m wired, but you can give me a back rub.”
“I’ll rub anything you like,” Stone said. “See you at seven.”
STONE ARRIVED
on Carrie’s doorstep at the same time as the deliveryman from the Chinese restaurant. He paid the man and rang the bell.
“Yes?” Carrie said on the intercom.
“Chinese delivery,” Stone said, and was buzzed in.
Carrie met him at the door. “Very funny, Chinese guy,” she said, laughing and taking the food from him. She went into the kitchen and made a little buffet of the containers, and they served themselves. They had dinner on the floor in front of the living room fireplace and shared a bottle of wine, while a Leahy waited outside her apartment door.
“I’m in love with Bob Cantor,” she said. “How do you know him?”
“From when I was on the NYPD. He and Dino and I were in the same detective squad. By the time Bob retired and went into business for himself, I was practicing law, and he’s been invaluable to me ever since.”
“How come you stopped being a policeman?”
“Because I stopped a bullet with my knee, and when my captain and I had a little disagreement over the conduct of a case, he used that to force me into medical retirement.”
“That’s shitty,” she said.
“Not entirely,” Stone replied. “When you retire because of an in-the-line-of-duty disability, you get a pension of seventy-five percent of your pay, tax free. If you’ve got to be forced out, it’s a nice good-bye kiss.”
When they finished dinner, she took away their dishes and then came back and sat between his legs.
“I believe you were going to give me a back rub,” she said.
“That’s how we’re going to start,” Stone said, starting.
12
WHEN STONE GOT
to his desk the following morning, there was a note on his desk from Joan. “Bill Eggers wants to see you ASAP,” it read.
Stone walked over to the offices of Woodman Weld, the law firm to which he was of counsel. Bill Eggers was its senior attorney and managing partner. When Stone had been forced out of the NYPD, Eggers, an old friend from NYU Law School, had taken him to lunch and suggested that Stone put his law degree to work for Woodman Weld. Stone had taken a cram course for the bar and passed, and Eggers had started feeding him cases, the sort that the firm didn’t want to be seen handling. The work from Woodman Weld amounted to well over half of Stone’s income, and when Eggers called, Stone answered.
Bill Eggers waved him to a chair. “How are you, Stone?”
“Very well, thanks, Bill.”
“I had a call this morning from an old friend of mine who’s a top guy in the biggest law firm in Atlanta,” Eggers said. “It seems you’re representing the ex-wife of an important client of his, and I use the word
representing
loosely.”
“You would be referring to Carrie Cox, former spouse of the creep Max Long? And I use the word
creep
expansively.”
“That I would.”
“From what I’ve heard I’m surprised to hear that Mr. Long can afford to retain an attorney who doesn’t advertise on late-night television,” Stone said.
“My friend brought me up to date on Mr. Long’s affairs, so I’ll bring you up to date. After his divorce he went through a bad patch, complicated by the shortage of money from the banks, and he lost a bundle. Shortly after that he acquired copious financing from a Saudi prince who keeps a house in Atlanta, and whose poker buddy he is. He used the money wisely, buying up prime parcels of land that were going at foreclosure prices and selling chunks of it to other investors at a handsome profit. His company is now earning money, and Mr. Long’s personal fortune has been recovered well into eight figures.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Stone said.
“I wanted you to hear it, because I suspect that you’ve been operating on the assumption that Mr. Long did not have the resources to be much of a problem to you.”
“I confess I was operating on that assumption,” Stone said. “I’m also operating on the assumption that Mr. Long is a real and proximate danger to Ms. Cox and that he is obsessive about her.”
“It’s clear,” Eggers said, “that you are relying on the testimony of Ms. Cox.”
“I am. She seems a smart and sensible woman.”
“My friend’s firm in Atlanta represented Mr. Long in his divorce, and he formed a somewhat different opinion of Ms. Cox.”
“That’s not surprising,” Stone said. “Divorce attorneys often adopt the opinions of their clients; they represent clients better, if they believe them.”
“He tells me that, on two occasions, Ms. Cox made attempts on Mr. Long’s life, once with a gun and once with a straight razor, which I thought was a quaint choice of weapon.”