Dino downed half of his in a gulp.
“Long day?” Stone asked.
“No longer than usual, but just as annoying,” Dino replied.
“Why don’t you just retire to a beach somewhere?”
“And give up my car with the whooper and flashing lights? How would I get anywhere?”
“Well, there is that, I suppose.”
“I’m not trading that for a beach and a drink with an umbrella in it.”
“Your point is well taken.”
“There’s more on your mystery pistol,” Dino said.
“Tell me.”
“The kid cop from East Hampton called to say that an ID card of sorts had been found on the body of the dead guy.”
“What kind of ID?”
“One with the name ‘Mac’ written on it.”
“Just ‘Mac’? And who issued the card?”
“The YMCA on the West Side.”
“So now we’ve got a nexus with the Black Dog, Eddie Jr.!”
“Not so fast, my friend. They don’t have any record of an Eddie Charles Jr. as a guest there.”
Stone frowned. “How about a record of Mac’s whole name?”
“Nope. It’s not that easy to get lucky on this case.”
“Fingerprints?”
“There you got lucky. John Joseph MacLean.”
“Well, he had to have gotten the pistol from Eddie.”
“Once again, not so fast. Mr. MacLean has done time for burglary and was skillful enough to have gotten nailed only once. He could have burgled the house and got interrupted by Annetta and desired to eliminate her as a witness. Or somebody else did and sold the gun to Mac.”
“Somebody like Eddie Jr.?”
“Maybe, but prove it.”
“That’s your job, not mine.”
“Oh, you’ve just been keeping your hand in, huh?”
“In a manner of speaking. Oh, I had a call from Sergeant Powell, too, asking me to get you to give his gun back.”
“His gun?”
“I pointed out his error. He wants to show it off to his chief.”
“Well, fuck his chief and the horse he rode in on.”
“I predicted to him that something like that would be your reaction, thus saving you from having to deal with him again.”
Dino drained his glass and signaled the bartender for a refill. “You know me so well,” he said.
“I do?”
“No, the bartender does.”
Forty-One
Stone went down to work the following morning and was surprised to find Joan there, bustling around his office.
“I thought you were in East Hampton. What are you doing here?” Stone asked.
“Cleaning up after you,” she said. “It’s astonishing how big a mess you can make in such a short time.”
“Do you feel fully restored by your holiday in the Hamptons?”
“Whatever restoration I was feeling was blown away by the man I blew away,” she said, collapsing into a chair next to his desk.
“I can understand how that would upset you,” Stone said. “Would it do any good for me to tell you that you behaved correctly. And if you hadn’t shot him, he might have trashed your new house and shot you and Betty dead — after raping the two of you, of course.”
“Don’t bother, I’ve already told myself that a hundred times, and it didn’t work.”
“I recall another occasion where you used your .45 on a man in this office, to keep him from killing me. How’d you handle it then?”
“Pretty much the same way, with pretty much the same result.”
“I don’t remember you being unduly upset that time,” Stone said.
“Oh, you were just too busy to notice.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t notice. I expect I was spending all my time being glad that I wasn’t dead and being grateful to you.”
“You said that at the time. Again, you’re welcome.”
“Well, I have a few residences around this country and Europe. Would you and your friend like to spend some time at one of them?”
“Thanks, but now Betty is afraid that I’ll shoot her by accident. And the guy would still be dead, and it would still be me who made him that way.”
“In that case, get your ass back to work and clean up this place. It’s a mess!”
Joan let out a bitter laugh, then did as she was told.
Eddie Jr. let himself into the garage of the Charles mansion — now the Robertson House — with his remote control and parked the station wagon, which had been thoroughly washed and cleaned, in a distant corner. He partly unscrewed the light bulb illuminating that area, then he walked to the only staff bedroom at garage level and took twenty minutes to pick the lock. Quickly, he satisfied himself that the room was not occupied by a staff member. It was neat, clean, and spacious. He brought in his luggage and unpacked, then a moment later he stretched out on the sofa, switched on the TV, and was watching an early Hitchcock film, The 39 Steps, set on the Scottish moors. He was soon asleep, confident of not being disturbed.
On her lunch hour, Joan drove her Mercedes convertible back to what she was starting to think of as the Robertson House and parked in the garage. As she entered, her headlights came on automatically, and for a second illuminated a Mercedes station wagon. She parked her car in its usual space, next to the green Mercedes station wagon that had belonged to the Charleses, then walked over to the wagon she had just seen, which was a metallic beige. She tried the doors, but they were locked. The car was scrupulously clean, inside and out, which made her think that one of the staff had been driving it. She took the elevator to the main floor and found the butler.
“Geoffrey,” she said to him, “who drives the beige Mercedes station wagon parked in the garage?”
“Mostly, I and Cook drive it and mostly to the grocery and hardware stores, but it’s green, not beige.”
“Well, now there are two Mercedes wagons parked in the garage, and one of them is beige. Look into it, will you? Perhaps one of the neighbors is taking advantage of our garage space.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Joan went up to her study and stretched out on the chaise lounge, and Geoffrey found her there a few minutes later. “Ms. Robertson, neither I nor anyone else on staff knows anything about the beige station wagon, and none of our keys fit it.” He handed her a slip of paper. “Here is the license number. Perhaps one of your police sources can learn the name of the owner.”
“Thank you, Geoffrey.” She tucked the number into her bra and attempted to doze off, but couldn’t. Finally, she called Stone.
“Yes, Joan?”
“Something strange has happened.”
“Uh-oh. What is it this time?”
“There is a strange, late-model Mercedes station wagon, color beige metallic, parked in my garage, and no one here has a key to it or knows anything else about it.”
“Then one of your neighbors is usurping your garage space.”
“Geoffrey looked into that; not so.”
“Can you give me the license number?”
“I can,” she said, consulting the paper in her bra.
“I’ll get back to you.”
Stone called Dino.
“Bacchetti.”
“It’s Stone. Can you run a plate for me?”
“In seconds,” Dino said, and Stone read him the number.
“Got it,” he said. He tapped the number into his computer.
“Who owns it?”
“A Delaware corporation. Registered a week ago.”
“Well, shit,” Stone said, knowing how impossible it would be to trace that.
“A neighbor’s, maybe?”
“They’ve already excluded that possibility.”
“Well, whatever branch of the tooth-fairy organization that handles Mercedeses has just dropped one in Joan’s garage. Congratulate her for me, will you?” He hung up.