“I’m about to make an arrest,” Stone said to the cop. “You want to assist me?”
“Sure, Stone,” Ryan replied.
“You know Deacon and Kelly there?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll take Deacon; you make sure Kelly doesn’t shoot me.”
“Okay.”
Stone, the handcuffs in his left hand, headed straight for Deacon, his right hand out. “Hello, Tom,” he said.
Deacon looked puzzled, but reacted by reaching for Stone’s hand.
Stone took hold of Deacon’s hand and held it while he snapped a cuff onto his wrist. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Susan Bean,” he said, and, before Deacon could react, Stone twisted Deacon’s arm behind his back, pushed him against the wall and cuffed his hands behind him. Then he spun Deacon around, ripped the pistol from his shoulder holster and removed his police identification from his inside pocket. “You’re not going to be needing this anymore,” he said.
There was a thud behind Stone, and he turned to see Mick Kelly, spread-eagled on the marble floor with Tim Ryan’s knee in his back, being handcuffed. “Take his gun and his badge, Tim,” he said, “and read them both their rights. I’ll call it in.”
He shoved Deacon onto a bench, reached for his cell phone, and called Dino.
“Hello?”
“It’s Stone. I’ve just made a citizen’s arrest.”
60
JEFF BANION WAS STANDING AT HIS POST IN front of the apartment building in the evening light, when he saw Howard Menzies’s big Mercedes coming down the block, with two men in the front seat. As it pulled to a halt at the awning, Jeff watched as a familiar-looking man got out from behind the wheel and came toward him. It took him a moment to recognize Mr. Menzies’s nephew, Peter Hausman, because Hausman had somehow acquired a very full head of hair.
“I am coming back after a moment,” the young man said in his heavily accented English. “No need to announce; Mr. Menzies is expect me.”
“Fine,” Jeff replied. He looked up the block and saw a uniformed traffic officer coming down the block, writing tickets. He opened the door of the Mercedes and got in. “Excuse me, sir” he said to the other man, whom he did not recognize. “I have to move the car; there’s a cop giving out tickets.”
“Good idea,” the man said. “Pretty nice car, huh?”
Jeff maneuvered the car to a space at the curb. “Sure is,” he said. “Let me just wait until this cop passes.”
“Like to buy it?” the man asked.
“Sure.” Jeff laughed. “Just take it out of my paycheck.”
“I don’t understand this guy Menzies,” the man said. “We only sold it to him less than two weeks ago, and now he’s sold it back.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’m just here to drive Menzies to Kennedy and then take the car. It cost him a year’s depreciation on the car to sell it back like that.”
Jeff saw the cop turn the corner and got out. “Well,” he said to the man, “people do crazy things.” He went back to his post, wondering why Menzies would sell his new car. The house phone rang. “This is Jeff,” he said into the phone.
“Jeff, it’s Howard Menzies; could you come upstairs and help me with some luggage, please?”
“Of course, Mr. Menzies; I’ll be right up.” Jeff stopped at the desk. “Ralph, watch the door, will you? I’ve got to give Mr. Menzies a hand.” He rode up in the elevator to the sixteenth floor and found the Menzies door open. “Hello?” he called out.
“Come in, Jeff,” Menzies called back. “I’m in the study.”
Peter Hausman passed him, carrying bags, headed for the elevator.
Jeff went into the study. “There are some more bags in the bedroom,” Menzies said.
“Going on a trip, Mr. Menzies?” Jeff asked.
“Just for a few days,” Menzies replied, holding up a large briefcase. “Peter and I are taking my wife’s ashes back to her homeland for burial. A sad task.”
“Yes, it is; I’m very sorry about her death; I’ll get the other bags.” Jeff went into the master bedroom and found two cases on the bed. As he leaned over the bed to pick them up, his foot bumped against something, and he bent down to see what it was. He lifted the skirt of the bedspread and found an automatic pistol in a holster. Oh, well, he supposed some people were paranoid about living in New York City. He picked up the bags and took them to the elevator.
He rode down with Menzies and his nephew, both of whom said nothing on the ride. He thought of asking about the sale of the Mercedes, but it was none of his business, so he didn’t bring it up. When the elevator reached the lobby, he loaded the bags into the car’s trunk, which was so full, he had to rearrange it to close the lid.
Menzies held out his hand. “Thank you for all your help, Jeff,” he said. “I’ll see you… ah, the middle of next week.”
“Have a good trip, Mr. Menzies,” Jeff replied. There were folded bills in Menzies’s hand, and when Jeff had a chance to look he was surprised to find two hundred-dollar bills. He watched as the Mercedes drove down Fifth Avenue, then turned east.
Jeff walked back into the building, thinking about what had just occurred. It didn’t add up: Hausman with hair; the resale of the Mercedes; the heavy tip. He had the very strong feeling that he wouldn’t be seeing Howard Menzies again.
For the tenth time, he took the newspaper clipping from his pocket and read it. Seven murders, it said. He put the clipping back into his pocket and made a decision. “Ralph,” he said to the desk man, “will you watch the door for a minute? I’ve got to use the phone in the package room.”
Jeff had very mixed feelings about this, but he had to do it.
61
STONE WAS RECEIVED AT THE BIANCHI home by Pietro, the butler, and taken straight through the house to a back terrace overlooking extensive gardens. Eduardo Bianchi was seated in a cushioned wrought-iron chair, and he stood to receive his guest.
“Good evening, Stone,” he said warmly, taking Stone’s hand and guiding him to a companion chair. “While the women are talking, I thought we’d have an aperitif out here. It’s such a lovely evening.”
“What would you like, Mr. Barrington?” Pietro asked.
“May I have a Strega, please?”
Pietro beamed his approval and went for the drink.
“It really is a lovely evening,” Stone said. The setting sun and the long shadows across the garden created a quilt of light and shadow. “Your garden is very beautiful.”
“Thank you, Stone,” Bianchi said. “I think it gives me more pleasure than any of my possessions. I am getting to be an old man, and it would comfort me to know that this house and its gardens would fall into appreciative hands when I am gone.”
“I’m sure it will,” Stone replied. “You seem to be in a reflective mood.”
“I find I am reflective more and more often,” Bianchi said. “It is the prerogative of old men, I suppose.”
“You seem anything but old, sir.”
Bianchi managed a small smile. “When you are my age you will find that old age is more than simply one’s physical condition; it is a state of mind. Try as I might, I can no longer think like a young man, or even a middle-aged one. Lucidity in one’s later years is a great gift from God; it gives one the opportunity for endless review: Have I done well in my life? Have I made others happy? Have my sins been forgiven?”
Stone said nothing.
“I had a long talk with Bill Eggers yesterday,” he said, “mostly about you.”
“Bill told me you had lunch,” Stone said.
“I understand that your difficulties with the District Attorney’s Office have been favorably resolved.”
“Yes, that seems to be true. I haven’t spoken to Dino since this morning; he’s questioning Tom Deacon and a police officer about Susan Bean’s murder, and I hope it’s going well.”
“Oh, I think it will go well,” Bianchi said, as if he had certain knowledge of it. “And I think you will have no further problems with this Brougham person.”