Shakeup
- Автор: Вудс Стюарт
- Серия: Stone Barrington #55
- Год: 2020
- Язык: английский
- Год: G. P. Putnam’s Sons
- ISBN: 978-0-593-18832-3
- Жанр: Триллеры
Электронная книга - «Shakeup». Краткое содержание книги:
As it turns out, the mastermind behind the malfeasance rocking New York City and the nation’s capital wields a heavy hand of influence. And when Stone is unable to recruit those closest to the case to his side, he is left with few leads and a handful of dead-ends. But with the help of important people in high places — and the expertise of alluring new friends — Stone is more than ready to rise to the occasion.
“Let me remind you of a conversation between Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler, in Gone With the Wind,” Stone said. “Scarlett says to Rhett, ‘After all, Rhett, money can’t buy happiness.’ Rhett replies, ‘Scarlett, money can usually buy happiness, and even when it can’t, it can buy some truly remarkable substitutes.’”
“What does that have to do with me?” Clark asked, not getting it.
“Money is bulletproof, if you’re willing to spend enough of it.”
He took a card from a desk drawer and pushed it across the desk. “This is the number of Michael Freeman, who is chairman and CEO of a company called Strategic Services — the second-largest security outfit in the world. Call him, tell him I referred you, and he will design a security detail that will protect you at all times, twenty-four seven, anyplace in the world.”
“What would that cost?”
Stone stood and offered his hand. “Whatever it costs,” he said, “you can afford it.”
“By the way, will you give me Art Jacoby’s number?”
“I’ll ask him to call you.”
They shook hands and Clark left, with Freeman’s card in his pocket.
23
Donald Clark made a call from his car. They were connected immediately.
“Did you find him?”
“Barrington wouldn’t give me his number.”
“Did Barrington say he was in New York?”
“No. Have you tried his office here?”
“I’ve left three messages, and he hasn’t called back.”
“I don’t know what else to tell you. If I learn anything I’ll call you.”
“Do that.” They both hung up.
Art got out of the elevator at the Lowell, and it was immediately obvious who the cop was in the lobby. He was dressed in a decent, if unpressed, suit, wore a fedora and thick-soled shoes. He walked over to the man. “Frank Capriani?”
“Who wants to know?” the man asked.
“I’m Art Jacoby.”
“And I’m your ride for the day. The car’s outside.” It was clearly his personal car, a worn-looking Jeep Cherokee.
“I hadn’t expected to be driven,” Art said.
“I guess it’s your lucky day,” Frank replied. “Where we headed?”
“Lexington Avenue and Sixty-fourth Street, Leung’s Tailoring, upstairs, east side of the street.”
“I hear somebody wants to do you,” Frank said.
“I think somebody wants to perforate my suit, with me in it.”
“That’s always a problem.”
“Dino says it’s your problem.”
Frank sighed. “Dino is the source of all my problems.” He pulled up in front of the shop and put down his sun visor, which had a large NYPD gold badge imprinted on it.
“That’s kind of a tip-off, isn’t it?” Art asked.
“Think of it as pest control,” Frank said. “We don’t want any shootouts on Lex, do we?”
“We do not.” Art trotted up the stairs. His fitting was ready, and he stood as still as he could, as the tailor marked final alterations with a slim piece of soap. He came back downstairs and got into Frank’s car.
“No suit?” Frank asked.
“Tomorrow.”
“Where to?”
“Let’s do shirts,” Art said, giving him an address on East Fifty-seventh Street. He went into Turnbull & Asser and picked out some swatches, then returned to the car and got in.
“Okay,” Frank said, “tell me how a cop can afford your wardrobe.”
“I had a daddy who died and left me in pretty good shape.”
“Some guys have all the luck,” Frank said. “I had a daddy, ran a candy store. He left me a jar of jawbreakers.”
“Well, at least nobody’s trying to kill you,” Art replied.
“You haven’t met my ex-wife.”
Art laughed and answered his ringing phone. “Jacoby.”
“It’s Stone.”
“Good day to you.”
“And to you. I just had a visit from Donald Clark, who is upset because the withdrawal of his confirmation caused him to lose his Secret Service protection.”
“You’re kidding,” Art said.
“No, he actually wanted me to call the president and plead his case.”
“He’s nuts. Who does he want to be protected from?”
“You, I believe.”
“Me? What’s my motive?”
“He thinks you think he killed your girl, and you want revenge.”
“He’s nuts.”
“Do you think he killed your girl?”
“No, I think Little Debby had it done. You think he could be in cahoots with her?”
“Given their history, I think that’s not a bad guess.”
“Well, as guesses go, that’s plausible.”
“Speaking of protection, do you feel safe with Frank Capriani?”
“Sure. He’s ideal. We’ve just come from my tailor and my shirtmaker, and nobody’s taken a shot at me yet.”
“Long may it wave,” Stone said. “Call me if anything terrible happens.”
“Sure thing.”
Stone heard a strange noise, followed by a thud and a grunt. “Stone?” Art said, sounding a little wobbly.
“Something wrong?”
“Somebody just put a round into Frank Capriani’s head.”
24
Stone listened hard. “Art, are you hit?”
“No, I’m cowering as far under the dashboard as I can get. Frank is a mess.”
“Is the car parked?”
“Do you know Turnbull & Asser?”
“Yes.”
“Outside the shop, parked illegally.”
“Arm yourself while I call the cops.”
“Okay, but hurry.” Art tugged his pistol from his shoulder holster.
Stone called Dino.
“Bacchetti.”
“It’s Stone. Somebody just took a shot at Art Jacoby, outside Turnbull & Asser.”
“Was he hit?”
“No, but Frank was. He sounds dead.”
“Okay, you call 911, now, and I’ll get a detective squad over there.” He hung up.
Stone called 911, then he called Art Jacoby.
“I’m still alive,” he said.
“If they were going for a second shot, it would already have happened,” Stone said. “Stay in the car, though. A detective squad will be there shortly. They don’t like cops getting shot.”
“I hear sirens,” Art said. “Now, feet running.”
“Then hang up and talk to them. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He hung up and buzzed Fred.
“Yes, sir?”
“In the car, now,” Stone said. He retrieved a nine mm and a shoulder holster, then ran for the car.
“Park Avenue and Fifty-seventh,” Stone said. “Go up Park, and stay off the cross streets.” Traffic was moving pretty well, until they came to a halt at Fifty-fifth Street.
“I’m getting out here, Fred,” Stone said. “Park somewhere, and I’ll call when I need you.” He slipped out of the car and jogged up Park Avenue and crossed the street at Fifty-seventh. There were uniforms everywhere, and they had the sidewalk closed.
Stone flashed his detective’s badge, hopped over a sawhorse and hurried to the door of Turnbull & Asser. People were coming and going, and he reckoned they had Art inside. He held up his badge and made his way into the shop. Art was sitting in a chair, surrounded by detectives, with his necktie undone and blood on his left shoulder.
Stone knew the detective in charge, Richard Becker. “Hey, Rich,” he said.
“You got a finger in this pie, Stone?”
He nodded toward Art. “He’s a friend. Can I talk to him?”
“Yeah, I think we’ve pretty much wrung him out.”
Stone went over and pulled up a footstool. “How you doing, Art?”
“Better than I should be.”
“What size suit do you wear?”