“You sail?”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“Not everybody,” Herman replied.
“Come on, Jake, what is this about?”
“Somebody tipped the Coast Guard to search the company yacht,” Herman replied.
“What for?”
“Drugs.”
“Did they find any?”
“Unlikely.”
“Then what’s the problem, and what do I have to do with it?”
Jake left the room and came back a moment later with Charley’s briefcase. “Let’s have a look in here,” Herman said.
Charley leaned over as he passed and snatched the case out of Herman’s hand. “Let’s not.” One of his burner phones would have the Coast Guard number in it.
“Charles, let Jake open the case,” Macher said.
“For what purpose?”
“For whatever purpose I wish.”
The secretary knocked, came into the room, and set some things on Macher’s desk. “Your mail, sir,” she said. “And there’s one from the Coast Guard. You asked me to watch for it.”
Macher picked up the envelope, ripped it open, and removed a letter. “Well, let’s see what they have to say,” he said, unfolding the letterhead and reading aloud. “‘Dear Mr. Macher. Further to the search of your company’s yacht on Saturday last, I wish to inform you that our laboratory has analyzed the white powder found in the owner’s suite. The powder turned out to be an over-the-counter laxative called SuperLax. I wish to apologize for any inconvenience caused by our search and to thank you for your cooperation.’”
“Anything else?” Charley asked.
“That doesn’t mean that you didn’t call the Coast Guard,” Herman said. He moved toward where Charley sat, reaching for the briefcase.
Charley stood up and kicked him hard in the knee, and Herman cried out and collapsed, clutching his knee. Charley turned to Macher. “Mr. Macher,” he said, “I don’t like working here anymore, so I’m resigning as of this moment. I got paid yesterday, so you don’t owe me anything.” He picked up his briefcase and started for the door.
“Now, Charles,” Macher said placatingly, “let’s talk about this.”
“I’ve nothing to talk about,” Charley replied, opening the door. “Good day.” He closed the door behind him and started for the outer door, then he stopped, reached into his pocket for the resignation letter, and tossed it onto the secretary’s desk. “I forgot to give this to Mr. Macher,” he said. “Please give it to him for me.”
“Of course, Charley,” she replied.
A moment later, Charley was on the street, hailing a cab.
“The Lombardy Hotel,” he said to the driver. “Fifty-sixth Street, east of Park.”
At the hotel he got out, went upstairs to his room, packed his things, and called down for a bellman. When the man came, he said, “Put these into a cab for me, going to JFK Airport, while I check out.”
“Yes, sir.”
Charley took the elevator down and asked the woman at the desk for his final bill.
“Leaving us, Mr. Fox?”
“Yes, I have to head down to Georgia to tend to a family matter.”
“Will you be returning to us soon?”
“Probably not for several months. I’ll give you a forwarding address.” He gave her his credit card, and she handed him a form. He filled it out, giving the address of the law firm that his family had dealt with, and signed the credit card slip. “Thanks for everything,” he said.
“Come back to see us.”
He gave the bellman a fifty, got into a cab, and as the driver pulled away, said, “Never mind the airport, I’ve another stop to make.” He gave the man the address, then got out his cell phone.
“Stone Barrington.”
“Stone, it’s Charley Fox.”
“Good morning, Charley.”
“Things came to a head with Macher this morning, and I’m out of that place and the hotel. May I come there now?”
“Of course. Come in through my office entrance.”
Stone buzzed for Fred, then got up when Charley came in. Bob got up from near Stone’s feet and greeted him.
“This is Bob,” Stone said. “He’s frisking you for food.”
“Hi, Bob,” Charley said, scratching his ears.
“Everything okay?”
“It is now.” Charley gave him an account of his morning.
“It’s just as well,” Stone said. “Fred will take you next door and get you settled and show you how to work the security system. I’ll call Mike Freeman and tell him you’ll need your office space this afternoon.”
“Thanks, Stone, I appreciate that.”
Jake Herman limped into Macher’s office. “I called his hotel,” he said. “He’s checked out, gave a forwarding address in Georgia, and took a cab to JFK.”
Macher waved a letter. “Turns out he was resigning anyway. He’d already written this.”
Herman looked at it. “Good riddance.”
“I never knew what he did here, anyway,” Macher said. “Still, I want you to keep tabs on where he is and what he’s doing.”
“Even in Georgia?”
“Anywhere he goes.”
25
The following morning Jake Herman went to the Lombardy Hotel.
“May I help you, sir?” the desk clerk asked.
“Yes, I’ve been trying to reach a friend of mine, Charles Fox, who lives here, but the operator said he had checked out.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Fox checked out yesterday.”
“Do you have a forwarding address? I want to repay some money I owe him.”
She went to a file drawer and came back with a form, and he copied the address. A law firm. He found a seat in the lobby, called the number in Delano, Georgia. He was told that they had not seen or heard of Mr. Fox for more than two years and weren’t expecting to.
Herman found the bell captain and inquired about Fox’s departure the day before. The man called in the bellman who covered Fox’s floor. “Did you put Mr. Fox into a cab yesterday?”
“Yep. He was going to JFK.”
“Do you remember what cab company the car was from?” Herman asked.
“Yeah, it was the Ace Cab Company. We get a lot of their cabs waiting outside.”
“Did you know the driver?”
“Name is Casey. I don’t know if that’s a first or a last name.”
“What time did Mr. Fox leave?”
“About nine-thirty, nine forty-five.”
Jake gave him a twenty and thanked him. He resumed his seat in the lobby, called the Ace Cab Company and asked for the dispatcher.
“Dispatch.”
“This is Special Agent Jacobs with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“What can I do you for?”
“Yesterday around nine-thirty, nine forty-five, a driver of yours named Casey picked up a fare at the Lombardy Hotel on East Fifty-sixth Street. Can you tell me his final destination?”
“Hang on, let me pull up his trip sheet. Here we go, went to JFK — no, he changed his destination.” The man gave it to him.
“That’s in Turtle Bay Gardens, isn’t it?”
“If you say so. Gotta run.” The man hung up.
Jake Herman knew who lived at that address. He went back to St. Clair and downstairs to Fox’s office, then searched it thoroughly. “As clean as a hound’s tooth,” he said aloud to himself, then he switched on Fox’s computer.
That done, he went upstairs and knocked on Macher’s door.
“Come!”
Jake went in and sat down. “Charles Fox didn’t go to Georgia yesterday,” he said. “He went to Stone Barrington’s house.”
“That little shit!”
“His office is empty, the cleaners have already emptied his wastebasket, and his computer’s hard drive has been reformatted, so there’s nothing on it.”
“How the hell does he know Stone Barrington?”