“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.”