“I see your point,” Hickock said, returning to his martini. “I’ll have to be more subtle.”
“Oh, Dick, I’m sure you can deal with Allan Peebles at any moment you wish, after this DIRT thing has blown over.”
“Yes, I can certainly do that, but when is this going to blow over?”
“Well, clearly it won’t blow over if we leave Stone Barrington to his devices. Eventually he’ll unearth the whole thing.”
“Yes, I suppose he will,” Hickock agreed.
“I think it might be best if we terminated his investigation and turned to, shall we say, other means.”
Hickock turned and looked her in the eye. “Just what means did you have in mind, Amanda?”
“Consider this, Dick: More than the DIRT business is involved. Dryer, or perhaps Power, or both, may have caused the death of a police officer-a retired one, but nevertheless…”
“Jesus Christ.”
“So far the police are not officially involved in the investigation of these two men, but if Stone – or anyone else, for that matter – should come up with evidence linking the two to the murder, then the whole can of worms – DIRT, Window Seat, everything – will be opened up.”
“Yes, I see that. So Dryer and Power are the immediate problem.”
“Yes. Surely you have connections with people who make a business of solving troublesome problems by more direct means.”
“Such as who?”
“Well, you did have some help in solving your labor problems last year, didn’t you? A consultant, so to speak?”
Hickock looked around him. “I think we’ve talked enough about this, Amanda.”
“Probably.”
“I understand the parameters of the problem now. Will you call off Stone Barrington?”
“Of course, darling, if you think that’s best.”
“I do.”
Amanda looked up. “Oh, here comes your steak, darling.” She watched as the perfectly grilled slab of meat was set down before him. “Why ever haven’t you already had a coronary?” She tested her salmon with a fork.
“I give other people coronaries,” Hickock replied, sawing off a hunk of beef and stuffing it into his mouth.
Amanda tucked into her salmon, secure in the knowledge that, while she had probably solved the DIRT problem, she had also ingratiated herself with Richard Hickock, at the same time letting him know that she knew. That knowledge would certainly be useful at some later date. The salmon was delicious.
Chapter 48
Richard Hickock got out of his car and tapped on the driver’s window. “I’m going to take a little walk,” he said. “You wait here.”
“Around here, Mr. Hickock?” the driver asked, surprised. They were in a desolate area of the Long Island City section of Queens, amid empty, rundown industrial buildings.
“I’ll be back soon,” Hickock said. He trudged off into a misty rain, down an empty street. Following the directions that had been faxed to him that afternoon, he turned left and crossed the street. The number “ 19” had been spray-painted on the door of a building, but it looked locked. He tried it, and it wasn’t. Inside, he went to a huge freight elevator, pulled a cord that closed the doors from the top and bottom, and pressed the number for the fourth floor. The thing actually worked.
When it stopped he pushed open the door and walked out of the elevator into a large, empty factory area. Daylight was waning, and the low light threw into relief holes in the floor where machinery had once been bolted down. There was no place to sit, so he walked slowly around the floor, wondering at what he was about to do. Suddenly he heard an electric motor running, and a moment later another freight elevator at the opposite end of the floor stopped, and Enrico Bianchi stepped out.
The two men walked from their opposite ends to the middle of the huge floor and embraced.
“Hello, Ricky,” Hickock said. “Thank you so much for coming.” Bianchi was, as always, tanned and slim, and his finely barbered hair had gone snow white.
“Dickie,” Bianchi said, holding him at arm’s length and looking at him. “You lost some weight.”
“Yeah, well, Glynnis made me buy a treadmill.”
Bianchi laughed heartily. “My wife will never get me on one of those.”
“How is she? And your daughter?”
“The wife is the same, maybe a little fatter. Mary Ann is married to the law, you will remember.”
“That must be a little touchy,” Hickock said.
“We manage to get along, mostly by not talking. He’s not a bad fellow, for a cop. I bought them an apartment on the East Side; Mary Ann has never liked Brooklyn.”
“That’s very generous of you.”
“Well, she’s my only daughter, you know, and she’s a tough one, like me. She gets what she wants, always.” He tucked Hickock’s arm into his. “Let’s walk.”
Hickock moved with him and, arm in arm, they promenaded slowly around the empty floor.
“I’m sorry we have to meet like this, but the feds are everywhere these days, have everything bugged. I can’t even talk in my car anymore, and we had to lose a carload of them before coming here today.”
“It’s all right; I understand. I’m just glad you could take the time.”
“Something’s wrong, eh?” Bianchi asked.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Tell me about it.”
“There are two young men who have been circulating rumors about me; they have almost cost me my marriage.”
Bianchi made a noise. “That is awful, to attack a man’s personal life. Is this a business thing?”
“They seem to know more than they should about my business. An employee has talked out of turn.”
“And you want me to, ah, speak to this employee?”
Hickock shook his head. “No; I can take care of him whenever I like. But the two young men are out of my reach.”
“But, perhaps, not out of mine?” Bianchi said, chuckling.
“I hope you are right. They have been very elusive; I have names, but they may be false; I have no address, but they are circulating around the fashionable quarters of Manhattan.” Hickock pulled a copy of Vanity Fair from his overcoat pocket and opened it. “But I have a very good photograph of one of them. He calls himself Jonathan Dryer.”
Bianchi stopped walking, fished a lighter out of his jacket pocket, and struck it, studying the photograph. “A good-looking boy,” he said. He closed the magazine and tucked it into his own overcoat pocket.
“Yes, he seems to do well with the ladies. The other one has used the name Geoffrey Power, and maybe G. Gable.”
“What else can you tell me about these young men?”
“They resemble each other – so much so that they may be brothers. One of them has recently arrived from L.A. One or both of them has some considerable skill as a burglar; he has broken into several large apartments and stolen cash, jewelry – always men’s wristwatches – and a pistol with a silencer attached. One of them may have killed a retired police officer with the stolen pistol.”
“So the police are already looking for them?”
“No, not yet; there hasn’t been enough evidence to connect them to the murder. I have no hard information whatever about these two; everything I have told you is just guessing.”
“How did you come by what you have already told me?”
“I hired an investigator.”
“His name?”
“Stone Barrington. You know him?”
“I know of him; he is a friend of my son-in-law, the cop.”
“He’s very good.”
“Is he still working on this?”
“He’s being called off today. I’m afraid that if he finds them and the police start talking to them, too much of this will get into the papers.”