Desperate Measures
- Автор: Вудс Стюарт
- Серия: Stone Barrington #47
- Год: 2018
- Язык: английский
- Год: G.P. Putnam's Sons
- ISBN: 978-0-7352-1922-9
- Жанр: Триллеры
Электронная книга - «Desperate Measures». Краткое содержание книги:
“Yeah, but now I’m curious.”
Twenty minutes later they were in Greenwich, following the shoreline, and the town car turned through large stone and wrought-iron gates and went up the drive to a large, Georgian-style house, where, from the street, Donald Trask could be seen taking his luggage through the front door.
“All right,” Sharkey said, getting out his cell phone and pressing a button. “Detective Sharkey for the commissioner.”
“Bacchetti,” Dino said.
“Commissioner, Donald Trask didn’t go to the Yale Club, and we never had a chance to brace him. We followed him to a big house in Greenwich.”
“Connecticut?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know we don’t operate up there, unless we’re serving a warrant.”
“Yes, sir. It looks like he lives up here.”
“Not for long,” Dino said. “He got divorced this morning, and he’s got to clear that house by Friday afternoon at five. Pick him up then, follow him to the city, and do what you’ve got to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now get your asses back to New York, where you belong.”
Sharkey hung up and reported the conversation to his partner. “I think we should take his suggestion.”
“Doesn’t sound like a suggestion,” Paulson said.
The two drove back to the city.
A week later, on Monday morning, a meeting attended by Cilla Scott, the two Realtors, and the seller’s attorney, took place in Herb Fisher’s office. Cilla signed many documents — the seller had already signed — and handed over a check.
“Congratulations,” the seller’s attorney said. “The apartment is yours.” He handed over four sets of keys and a bill of sale for the furniture she had bought, then departed.
Cilla thanked Herb for everything, then she and Margot left.
“I have an offer on the Carlyle apartment,” Margot said.
“Already?”
“I think we priced it right.”
“What’s the offer?”
“He offered $3,500,000; I countered with four and a half, and he came up to $4,250,000.”
“Accept it,” Cilla said. “He can close anytime. I’m moving this afternoon.”
“May I help?” Margot asked.
Back at the Carlyle, Cilla packed, while Margot phoned and accepted the offer, then they put Cilla’s things into a hired town car and ferried it over to Fifth Avenue.
The apartment was neat and spotless, and there were fresh linens on the beds. Cilla hung her things in the dressing room. “Now I have to go buy a car,” she said. She found Paul, the male half of her newly hired couple. “Paul, do you drive?”
“I drove your predecessor everywhere.”
“Then come with me.”
Downstairs, Margot excused herself to deliver the signed offer of the apartment to the buyer’s Realtor.
Cilla thanked her profusely. “Margot, do you know where the Bentley dealership is?”
“It’s called Manhattan Motorcars, and it’s on Ninth Avenue, below Forty-second Street.”
Cilla and Paul got into a cab, she googled the dealership for the correct address, and they were there in twenty minutes.
Cilla walked into the showroom, followed by Paul, and a salesman approached.
“May I show you something?” he asked.
“You can show me that,” Cilla said, pointing at a silver Flying Spur.
He did so, and she examined the window sticker carefully. “How much of a discount can you offer me?” she asked.
“None, I’m afraid. Everything here is sold at list price. I can offer you your first detailing free, though.”
“Write it up,” she said, digging in her bag for her checkbook.
A half hour later as they were driving uptown, she caressed the beautiful leather of the seats. “This is going to be your second home, Paul,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Paul replied. “And a fine home it is.”
26
Cilla called Stone.
“Hello?”
“I feel in a celebratory mood,” she said. “Can I take you to dinner?”
“Sure. What time should I pick you up?”
“I’ll pick you up,” she said. “Be downstairs at seven o’clock.”
“As you wish.”
The silver Flying Spur glided to a halt in front of Stone’s house, and the driver held the door for him.
“This is beautiful,” he said, climbing in.
“It’s not as big as your Mulsanne,” she said, “but it had the virtue of being on the showroom floor, ready to drive away. I was in no mood to wait three or four months for delivery.”
“Where are we headed?”
“Brooklyn,” she said.
“I’m in your hands.” They crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, took a right or two, and drove up to the River Café. “Ah, one of my favorites,” Stone said.
“They know me here, so I was able to get a table on short notice.”
They were seated, ordered drinks, and perused the menu. When they had ordered, Cilla spoke up. “Do you know why I’m so happy?”
“Because you’re divorced?”
“That was last week. Now I’m happy because I moved into my new apartment today.”
“What are you doing for furniture?”
“The previous owner was a recent widow who was downsizing, so I bought enough of her furniture to live with. Oh, I’ll re-cover some things, and buy many others, but I’m comfortable.”
“Anything else?”
“Donald is out of the Greenwich house. I expected him to take his clothes and personal things, but according to my housekeeper he took everything — furniture, books, art, TVs, rugs — and he took an early Picasso that was my mother’s. I’ll probably have to sue him to get it back. Herb is on it.”
“What is it worth?”
“Millions, I expect.”
“Where did Donald move to?”
“He’s rented an apartment on the Upper East Side, in a nice building, far enough from me.”
“Good,” Stone said. “Just think of the stuff he took as a challenge to your decorating skills.”
“I’ll do that.”
“He took the safe in the study, too. That’s where he kept his guns.”
“So, he’s armed again? Dino’s guys never caught him with a gun; they didn’t know about his new apartment.”
“Herb is going over there as we speak, to get the Picasso back.”
“Does he know that Donald is armed?”
“He’s taking backup, don’t worry.”
Herb Fisher, accompanied by two uniformed NYPD officers hired for the occasion, rang the doorbell of Donald Trask’s new apartment. Trask opened it, wearing a new-looking silk dressing gown. “Hi, remember me?” Herb asked.
“All too well,” Trask replied. “What the fuck do you want?”
“The Picasso,” Herb said.
“What Picasso?”
“The one you stole from Ms. Scott’s Greenwich home.”
“I didn’t steal it. It was hanging in my study.”
“You also stole the furnishings of the study. There was no such right given to you in the separation agreement. May we come in, or do these two gentlemen have to arrest you first for grand larceny?”
“I want to call my lawyer,” Trask said.
“Call whoever you like,” Herb replied, brushing past Trask with the cops close behind. He walked quickly around the apartment, which was filled with unpacked boxes, until he found the Picasso on the mantelpiece in a small study.
“That one,” Herb said to the cops, taking it down. He found a sheet of Bubble Wrap in a pile of trash and wrapped the picture in it. “That’s it,” he said to the cops. “Let’s go.”
“I’m going to get that picture back,” Trask said.
“No, you’re not. It wasn’t marital property — Ms. Scott inherited it from her mother. If you try, you’ll end up in jail. Good evening.”