“And however did you get Bernie to pose for these pictures? I’ve met him only once, at the aforementioned luncheon, but he certainly didn’t seem built for nude photos.”
“Oh, your good friend Mr. Cantor supplied the photographs.”
“I’m afraid the only Mr. Cantor with whom I am acquainted is Eddie, of the banjo eyes, and I believe he is far too dead to supply you with nudies of Bernie Finger.”
Stead managed an appreciative chuckle. “Mr. Barrington, this page appreciates your contributions to our output, and as long as we can maintain this friendly relationship, you will have our gratitude, expressed in our treatment of you in these pages.”
“Mr. Stead, while I am always appreciative of kind treatment, I cannot offer a quid pro quo, not being the gossipy sort, but I wish you well in your endeavors, particularly with regard to Bernie Finger. I bid you good morning.” He disconnected.
“Nicely done,” Joan said. “Tell me, did you ever feel even a twinge of conscience about this? I wasn’t really sure you’d go through with it.”
“A twinge, yes, for about half a minute. Then I remembered Bernie’s attempt to sabotage my reputation with his altered-state account of our lunch, and I started to feel really good about screwing him, which is how I still feel.”
“And how about torpedoing his marriage? Do you expect to reap any karma for that?”
“Well, Bernie’s ego, not his marriage, was my objective, but although I have done Bernie an ill turn, I’m sure that is more than made up for in good karma by the service I have done Mrs. Finger, who will presently be rid of Bernie and very rich. I predict she will remarry within the year.”
The phone rang again, and Joan picked it up. “The Barrington Practice.” She listened and handed Stone the phone. “Bob Cantor.” She returned to her office.
“Good morning, Bob,” Stone said.
“Morning, Stone.”
“I’ve just had Page Six on the phone, and Henry Stead made a half-hearted attempt to make me admit that I know you.”
“Which you repulsed?”
“In emphatic fashion. What’s up?”
“I still haven’t heard from Herbie, and now I’m really worried. He’s never gone this long without asking for money.”
“Have you made inquiries?”
“Yeah. I know I’m supposed to be a detective, but I’m damned if I can catch his scent.”
“Have you been to his home?”
“Not yet, but I guess I’d better go over there. I have a key.”
“Give me the address, and I’ll meet you,” Stone said. He scribbled it down. “Give me half an hour. I’ll meet you out front.” He hung up and buzzed Joan.
“Yes?”
“I’m going to run out to Brooklyn; Herbie Fisher is missing and Bob is concerned.”
“I thought it was awfully quiet around here,” Joan said.
Stone hailed a cab and gave the driver the address. It was weird, he reflected, how Herbie’s sudden absence could leave a hole in his day. He couldn’t say he missed the idiot, but still…
Bob Cantor was standing on the sidewalk in front of a handsome brownstone in a gentrified neighborhood. “This way,” he said, opening the iron gate and taking the stairs that led to the basement. “He lives in the super’s apartment.”
Cantor let them in with his key and scooped up a pile of mail on the floor outside the apartment. He opened the front door.
“Let’s do this like a crime scene,” Stone said.
“I’m way ahead of you,” Cantor said, handing Stone a pair of latex gloves. He led the way from the foyer into the living room. The room had been tossed-no, more than tossed, trashed. A bookcase holding an elaborate stereo system lay facedown on the floor, its contents smashed. Every piece of upholstered furniture had been slashed to the springs, and the drawers of a small desk were scattered here and there. An inspection of the single bedroom revealed the same treatment, and even the bathroom had been thoroughly turned over.
“What do you think they were looking for?” Stone asked.
“Money, what else?”
“And why would anybody think Herbie has money?”
“Well, he’s always telling anybody who’ll listen that he does. I guess somebody believed it.”
“I suppose so.”
“You think this is Carmine Dattila’s work?”
“Who else?”
“Well, I’m sure he’s not the only person Herbie owes money,” Stone said.
“Maybe not, but Dattila is probably the only lender with a personal army to do work like this.”
The two men stood in the apartment with but one thought between them.
“You think Herbie is still alive?” Cantor asked.
“I think that depends on whether Herbie can convince them that he has some hope of paying,” Stone said. “It’s time to call the Brooklyn cop shop.”
21
Stone sat on the arm of a formerly overstuffed chair in Herbie Fisher’s apartment and watched the two detectives pick their way around the apartment.
“Well, so far,” Detective One said, “this is vandalism, as I see it.”
Detective Two nodded in agreement.
“It’s kidnapping, possibly a homicide, with burglary,” Stone said.
Detective Two shook his head. “I don’t see anything missing.”
Stone sighed. “If you could see it, it wouldn’t be missing.”
“Huh?”
“Herbie had money here; you see any money?”
“Well, no, but how do we know there ever was any money here?”
“We have only the kidnap victim’s word for that, but it’s a start, don’t you agree?”
Cantor broke in. “Look, guys, my nephew has been missing for three days, and when we enter the apartment, we find this.” He waved an arm around.
“What can I tell you?” Detective One said.
“I’ll bet you could tell me a lot if the kidnapped person was a beautiful twenty-one-year-old model. I’ll bet your crime scene people would be all over this.”
“Here’s another thing,” Detective Two said. “You’ve disturbed this crime scene; it’s no longer any good.”
Stone and Cantor both held up both hands to show their latex gloves.
“We’re both retired from the job,” Cantor said. “You think we don’t know at least as much as you two assholes about crime scenes?”
“Now, speaking to us disrespectfully is not going to get you extra service,” Detective One said, sounding hurt.
“When I speak of you disrespectfully, it will be in the newspapers,” Stone said, “which is my next stop if you don’t get your ass in gear and put out a bulletin on Herbie. As we explained to you, he owes one of Carmine Dattila’s bookies a lot of money, so you already have a suspect.”
“Yeah, but that Dattila guy works out of Manhattan,” Detective Two said.
“He works wherever the fuck he wants to work,” Cantor pointed out, “and the kidnapping and burglary happened in Brooklyn, in, of all places,
